


Little And Broken, But Still Good

by strangehighs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Severus Snape Lives, Young Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangehighs/pseuds/strangehighs
Summary: When Harry decided to retrieve Severus Snape's body from the Shrieking Shack, intent on giving him a proper burial, he never thought he'd insted find the boy he saw in the memories, from the playground, scared, spitting mad, and with no idea how he got there.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 242
Kudos: 458





	1. Chapter 1

Surprisingly, the thing that bothered Harry the most about the wasteland left after the battle was simply the _smell_. Sure, half the school was in ruins now, its beautiful statues turned to nothing more than rubble, strewn everywhere you could see and glittering with the shards of stained glass. Many paintings had been badly damaged, the lawns scorched, covered in deep gouges left by the giants’ efforts while fighting alongside the Death Eaters. The bodies-

He drew a shuddering breath, taking off his glasses so he could rub his eyes. The grime and dust and... and blood, coating every part of his hands, made for a sticky, disgusting mess, but his face wasn’t any better. He didn’t think he could ever scrub himself enough to feel truly clean again. Not after this.

(Blood gushing through his fingers, gasping breaths. The _hated_ black eyes staring at him urgently, pouring out his whole life along with tears.)

(And more blood.)

Looking at his stained hands, he mused at how the brain kept focusing on the most ordinary things, just to avoid dealing the gruesome big picture. The air, even here all the way up the Headmaster Tower, carried the distinctive smell of drying blood and recent death, exactly how he imagined it would be when he was still a boy watching snippets of movies through the grate in door of his cupboard. Those were all muggle battles, with revolvers and dynamite explosions, because the Dursleys would be perfectly fine with their perfect son watching carnage at a young age, but drew the line at _fantastic nonsense_.

Their battle, however, was made of magic, and that made a difference. Sharp, overpowering enough to tickle at the back of his throat and leave his hair even more on edge than usual, the residual energy left by the thousands of spells used on the grounds left the air almost unbreathable, at least for Harry, like trying to heave in oxygen though a wet towel covering his face.

Rising, he looked at where Ron and Hermione stood, bent over Dumbledore’s Pensieve. They’d be out any minute now. He'd had to show them, all those memories, a life caught in fragments that fit together forming a puzzle unseen by all except its owner. _And Dumbledore_ , he thought. Harry understood that those moments were private, bordering on secrets, and they’d only been given to him as a last resort, but he couldn’t keep it all just to himself without tearing at the seams. It was simply _too much_. No, he reasoned with himself, he would share with the two people he would trust his very soul with and no one else. That had to be enough.

Hermione came to first, stifling a cry with her fist. She turned to Harry, tears welling up in her eyes, with Ron following her, pale face stricken with surprise. Hearing his rather passionate defense shouted in the middle of a duel probably felt very different to watching it with your own eyes. He couldn’t appreciate it like they did, the urgency of his impending sacrifice tainting the experience enough to dull the ache left by the discovery.

“Oh, Harry,” breaking the heavy silence, Hermione sat down on the steps in front of the desk. “I don’t even know what to say!”

“Well,” he answered. “That’s rare.” Ron huffed an almost laugh, which morphed into a trembly sigh. He ran his hands through his hair, visibly chewing up his thoughts, years of contempt clashing with the new knowledge. 

“So the old bat didn’t truly hate us after all?” Ron asked, scratching his unshaved chin, dirt flaking off on the fancy carpet.

“No, I’m pretty sure he did hate us all quite a lot.” Falling down beside Hermione, Harry continued. “He just… hated Voldemort more? No, that’s not right, it feels wrong to even think this.”

“He loved your mum more than he hated us,” her reply was soft, directed to her knees and herself more than towards Harry. “More than anything else.”

The tears burning in his eyes felt like cheating, even though he knew how absurd a thought it was. He hadn’t cried for Remus yet. For Fred, Tonks, Lavender, anyone else, and here he was, doing it for Severus fucking Snape of all people. _He died in your hands, you watched it happen with your own eyes,_ the little rational part of his mind reasoned, _it’ll feel more real than the others_ . It didn’t make him feel much better. The comfortable weight of Ron’s arm settled across his back, flanking his other side, and the gesture made him feel wretched. His best friend had just lost a brother and _he_ was the one trying to console him. The minutes passed with the three in silence, broke only by Harry’s sniffles and whatever noise drifted from the floors bellow.

“Your dad was right a berk,” Ron said, after a while. Raising his eyes at him, Harry watched him blushing and choked a wet chuckle. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yeah, he was,” he answered, taking off his glasses looking for a not so dirty spot on his sweater to scrub some of the gunk caking the lenses. He heard Hermione murmuring a soft _oh, for fuck’s sake_ , the tingling Scourgify aimed at them spreading up to his wrists in her frustration. He smiled at her. “I already knew about that time after their O.W.L.s, but that one in the train made me think of Malfoy, remember? He said something like that too, about Hufflepuff I think.”

“I want…” he continued with a sigh. “I want to do something for him. Snape, I mean. He was a bastard, but I don’t imagine anyone else could’ve done what he did for us. For everyone. And people should know about these things, about what he went through to make sure Voldemort was defeated, even though it went against his own wishes-”

“Against protecting you.”

“Yeah. I just,” his voice breaking at Hermione’s addition. “I just have no idea what to do. So many people hate him, and the fact that he killed the only person who knew about everything doesn’t help,” he pointed at the Pensieve, still glowing gently on the desk. “All I have is a goddamn bowl full of his own memories, and people can say they’re false, or altered, and I don’t know what I can do to make it any better!”

“You have your word, Harry! Honestly,” standing up, Hermione started gesturing through her thoughts exactly like she did when trying to explain Gamp’s Law of whatever. “You’re wizarding Britain’s great hero right now! Your word is the best defense he could possibly have. It’ll take some work, probably a few public demonstrations and interviews, but if anyone can sort it out it’s you.”

“Yes, but where do I even start?”

“It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” Ron cut through, shrugging. At Harry’s confused face, he sighed. “A funeral. With you attending, us by your side. If we explain things I’m sure the other professors will be there too. It’s bound to have the kind of impression you need.”

Harry gasped, standing up too. It was so simple and obvious, he didn’t know why it didn’t cross his mind before. Snape’s funeral could be one among all the others they would have these days to honor the fallen, and Harry would make sure he had the respects his efforts deserved. He was nodding along with Ron’s suggestion when the fact hit him. “His body is still in the Shack!” Frantic, he started towards the door. “I have to retrieve him before something happens, before too much time passes!”

“That’s also obvious, mate.” Brushing his pants, Ron caught up with him, Hermione right behind. “We can go now if you want, things will get even more hectic when the reporters start to trickle in.”

“But what about your family, and the others-”

“Fred is being taken care of, I know he is, and I’ll catch up with them in a bit.” Ron’s voice was serious, and Harry wondered about how this war had forced them to grow up so violently. He couldn’t imagine the Ron of a year ago ever suggesting something like this, but then again he couldn’t imagine it of himself either. With a sad smile, he continued. “You need us now.”

“You’re our family too, Harry, and we can see how important it is for you to do this,” Hermione said, squeezing his hand in hers. “We wouldn’t have anyone there with you in our place. Not in this.”

His eyes stung fiercely again, as he tried to swallow past the lump of emotions lodged in his throat. He smiled at them.

“Let’s bring him home.”

* * *

The trek to the Shack was silent, passing so quickly Harry barely registered the discomfort of crawling through the cramped tunnel for the second time in less than a day. It was only when they reached the end he started dreading what they would find, how the passing hours laying on the dusty floor would have affected the already gruesome picture of Snape’s last moments. The Killing Curse, if you discounted the actual result, had more harmful effects on the caster than on the victim itself. A soul split by the hateful deed against a quick and painless death. A clean death.

It was one of Voldemort’s most notorious spells, which he dolled out as easily as drawing breath, and yet Snape hadn’t even be allowed that, his death as messy as his life had been. Ron heaved himself out of the tunnel, letting out a surprised gasp that left Harry scrambling to follow him.

The room looked the same it did the day before, splintered furniture half buried under years of accumulated dust, and completely devoid of color except for the then bright red pool of blood soaking through the floorboards. The stain was there, dark and dried out now, but in it lay only Snape's black cloak, rumpled and sticking to the ground, and his boots. No body.

No Snape.

He was vaguely aware of Ron speaking, something about not seeing signs of anyone else coming in, and Hermione arguing they could’ve just erased the traces with magic. He knelt down near the discarded cloak, furrowing his brow. It made sense, her theory, but why would anyone want his body? Using just his fingertips, he pulled it up from the floor, stiff with dried blood, and noticed a set of black trousers tangled in it. What _the fuck_ would anyone want with a half naked, very dead Snape? 

“You’re better at it than us, Hermione,” his attention snapped back to his friends. “It could be some kind of trap.”

“Honestly,” she huffed. Harry felt more than saw it, something lurking at the corner of his eyes. “You know the incantation, it’s not even that hard a charm. Homenum Revel-”

He threw a Shield wordlessly at the same time a small voice screamed “Petrificus Totalus!”, its owner hidden behind what was left of a dresser. The spell sputtered and died before even reaching his barrier. 

"Oh bugger…"

A skinny boy stood in front of the teenagers, dressed only in an enormous white shirt, pants and socks, glaring at the wand in his hand with betrayal written all over his dirty face. As Ron strode over to him, Harry took in the details. Beetle black eyes round with fear, framed by a mess of even darker hair stuck to his clammy skin. The shirt hanging from his bony shoulders was torn and rusted with blood, plastered through his neck and jaw. A nose too big for such a small face. A nose…

Ron grabbed the boy by the arm as he made to run. He kicked and screamed, a stream of curses creative enough to put a sailor to shame falling from his mouth all the time, fueling the sparkles flying from the wand still squeezed in his little fist. Realization dawned on Harry at the same time his friend dropped the child with a cry.

“The little bastard bit me!” he exclaimed, pointing his wand at the scurrying boy.

“Ron, wait!” Hermione jumped, holding back his arm. “Can’t you see? That’s-”

“Snape.” Harry finished.

The boy, _Snape_ , snapped his head up, staring at them warily. He could see now, the boy from the playground, from the memories in the Pensieve. He looked about the same age from when he met Lily, but not old enough for Hogwarts yet, and scared out of his wits, clutching a wand that barely fit his hand as a life jacket in the sea. From his place crouched by the wall, as far away from them as he could go, he scowled fiercely when he heard his name.

“How d’you know my name?” he sounded defiant enough to almost pull it off, betrayed only by his shaky hands. “I don’t know who you are or what is this place, so why do you know me?”

Hermione floundered, opening and closing her mouth without knowing how to answer that. “We, we’re in Hogsmeade,” she stuttered in the end. “At the Shrieking Sha- oh no, it didn-” she cut off, swallowing hard. _It didn’t exist in 1970_ , he finished in his mind, scrubbing his itchy eyes under his glasses. 

Sighing, Harry sat down on a crate, suddenly exhausted. Ron looked like he’d seen a ghost, and he supposed it felt about right. A ten year old Snape was the last thing they could have ever expected to find when they decided to come back to the Shack this day, and Harry had to fight the urge to scream at the ridiculousness of the situation. Wouldn’t do to scare the boy even more.

“I’m Harry,” he said, tiredly. Pointing, he continued. “These are Hermione and Ron, they’re my mates. We’re in Hogsmeade, as she said. And you’re Severus Snape, right?”

“You didn’t say how you know that! Why do you know my name, why am I her-”

“Hey, hey!” he called, interrupting the boy’s frantic questions before the panic made him too stupid to listen. “Severus, look! Look at me, my eyes. Do they remind you of someone?”

The barely disguised flinch when he approached made him slow down, taking off his glasses carefully and looking at the boy ( _Snape_ , he reminded himself, _the boy is Snape_ ), fully. His scowl turned from scared, angry, to confused. 

“Your eyes look like… Lily’s?”

Trying his best to make his forced smile resemble something reassuring, Harry nodded at the vague shape in front of him. “She's your friend, right?” he said, carefully avoiding the past tense. “The first magical person you've met besides your mum and yourself.” The boy shaped form bobbed his head, reluctantly, and Harry continued. “I'm, well, I'm related to her? Sort of. And I'm magical too, as you've seen. We all are.”

As he pushed his glasses back into place, he saw Snape relax minutely at the reassurance, though he still kept himself firmly pressed to the wall. He cocked his head to the side, making the torn shirt slip even more down his shoulder. “Lily didn't know about magic before I told her what she was,” he said, brows furrowed with suspicion. “She said her whole family was muggle.”

“Maybe we could discuss it somewhere else,” Hermione suggested softly. “Hogwarts is close by, we would be _safer_ there.”

The last bit was directed to Harry. She was right, they didn’t know exactly how many of the Death Eaters were gone and how many escaped. They were sitting ducks out here away from the school alone. When he looked back to Snape he saw his scowl deepen again.

“I’m not going nowhere with you,” he replied. “If you don’t explain why I woke up here in somebody else’s clothes and laying in a gallon of blood!” He turned to Harry. “And I don’t even know if you’re really related to Lily, you could be trying to fool me and take me somewhere. Lots of people have green eyes, that don’t prove nothing.”

“I know her name is Lily Evans, and she has a sister called Petunia. She hates your guts and looks like a horse.” He paused, considering his options. “You both live in Cokeworth, on different sides of the river. Your mum is Eileen, a witch, and your dad is Tobias, a muggle. He hates magic. I know you want to go to Slytherin,” Snape’s posture was tense with shock, but he had to get the boy to understand. “I know you enough to know you’re a smart boy, and it’s good that you don’t trust everyone that comes your way, but I also know that you’re scared and confused. We want to help you, but you’ll have to work with us on this.”

“We don’t know how you ended up here either, kid,” Ron added. “But we’ll find out if you drop the act and accept help.”

“You grabbed me!”

“And you bit me,” he pointed at the flustered child. “I’d say we’re pretty even.”

“Boys, can we please get to the point?” Hermione interrupted Snape’s muttered retort, something that sounded vaguely like _We’ll see even when I knee you in the family jewels_. “Snape, Severus. Will you come with us? I promise, we’ll find an answer to how you ended up here, _once_ we get to Hogwarts. No one will hurt you, we’ll make sure of that. Deal?”

Snape glanced at Harry through his hair, chewing on his lip. He looked so young like that. “Alright, I’ll go,” he decided. “But only if I can keep this wand.”

“Deal,” Harry answered, then turned to Hermione who started to protest. “That way you’ll be able to defend yourself too, right? I bet you know a lot of other spells besides Petrificus.”

Hermione glowered at him, but he just raised his eyebrows, Snape chattering away about his mum letting him read her old books. “But she never let me test any of the spells,” he finished, finally coming out of his hiding place by the wall. He looked at them and flushed, scowling again as if expecting reproach. _See_ , Harry thought, and Hermione sighed in defeat.

“Fine, keep it then,” she put her hands in her hips and looked around. “Let’s see what we can do about some clothes.”

* * *

It took a bit of effort but they did manage to dress Snape in something a little more acceptable than a bloodied shirt and pants that threatened to slip and leave him naked at every movement. Hermione shrank Snape’s own shoes to fit his actual size, and Ron volunteered his sweater to be made into trousers, Harry’s coat finishing up the outfit. It was mismatched and hastily put together, but, as a testament to how used he was to not having a properly fitted wardrobe, Snape didn’t complain other than frown at the disgusting state of his loaned clothes. Ron threw a Tergeo at him, vanishing enough of the grime to make it presentable.

They set of through the tunnel and soon they were emerging through the roots of the Whomping Willow, Snape’s big eyes almost popping out of their sockets at the sight of the softly swinging branches. Even the nasty old tree seemed tired, making no effort to snap at them. Harry kept hoping it would distract Snape he wouldn’t ask about the smoke in the air.

“I think we should warn someone at the castle before we arrive,” Ron spoke ahead of them. He looked pointedly at the boy behind Hermione, raising his eyebrows at Harry. “Avoid unwanted attention, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hermione answered, pensive. “And since Severus seems to be fine, we could skip Madam Pomfrey,” she grimaced. “She’s got her hands full.”

 _With all the wounded and maimed_ was left unsaid, but it was a good idea. “Professor McGonagall should be able to help,” Harry said. “At least I hope she does.” He breathed deeply and pulled on his memories, feeling the warmth of past happiness pooling on his chest and pushing it all towards the Patronus. The silvery blue stag emerged from his wand, glowing gently between them. Harry watched it trot over to his friends, nuzzling them in greeting, and then turning to the boy. He stood frozen into place, mouth slack with surprise, the soft glow reflecting back in his eyes. The Patronus stared at him for a moment, before closing the remaining distance and brushing its nose against Snape’s hair playfully. It snorted and focused on its caster with a nod. Harry smiled at the boy’s shocked face.

“A message for Professor McGonagall,” he said, the stag swivelling its ears towards him in attention. “Professor, we’re bringing someone to the castle and we need your help, preferably somewhere secluded. Don’t bring anyone else for now. You can go.”

The Patronus leapt in the air, speeding towards the castle, and they resumed their walk. The quiet lasted only a few minutes, with Snape bouncing on his feet with the effort to remain silent. He fell into step with Harry in what he thought was meant to be a discreet manner, almost enough to make him break out in very inappropriate giggles at the boy’s behavior. Master spy indeed.

“What was that spell you did?” Snape asked after some time, eyes wild with barely repressed curiosity. “With the deer. Is it some sort of messenger?”

He bit back a smile at the face Ron threw over his shoulder. “It’s called a Patronus,” he answered. “It’s normally used to ward off dementors and lethifolds, but it can work as a messenger too.”

“Why does it look like a deer?”

“Each person has a different Patronus,” he said. "You only know which animal it'll be when you manage to conjure one."

Snape hummed, pensive. "I know about dementors, but I never read about how to fight them off in none of my mum's books. Yours looks really neat," he piped, looking at Harry. He chewed on his nails for a few moments, adding shyly. "That shield was damn fast too."

Harry turned to look at the boy, not knowing what to say, when the smell hit again. All his thoughts about how different this little Snape was to the one he knew went flying out of his mind, remaining only the image of destruction left by the battle. How the _fuck_ was he supposed to explain what happened at Hogwarts? Panicked, he searched for Hermione’s eyes, already shaking her head at him from her place ahead. Harry blew out a hard breath.

“Hey,” he called the boy’s attention to himself. Snape dropped the finger he was chewing on and raised an eyebrow. “We’re really close to the castle. No matter what you see on the way, I promise we’ll explain later, when we’re Professor McGonagall, but you’ll have to hold your questions and just follow. Can you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

The suspicion in his voice was palpable, and he didn’t even have to turn to Hermione to know she was thinking _Well done, Harry, now he’s even more curious_. “Can you or not?” he asked impatiently.

“Fine, I’ll keep quiet.” Sullenness was back, the open eagerness from a few moments ago stamped down to nothing. Harry felt strangely sad to see him withdrawing.

They made a turn around the forest and the castle came into view, still smouldering in the now bright daylight. He watched Snape taking in the broken towers and caved in walls, eyes growing with unease. The boy bit his lips to keep himself quiet, freezing at the sight of rust colored stains on the charred lawn. Harry pushed him ahead as gently as he could, hunched in on himself on his borrowed clothes. At least they didn’t see anyone else outside, alive or otherwise.

Professor McGonagall stood on what was left of the doorway to the Entrance Hall, her hair falling in a tangled mess around her shoulders, a tired air clinging to her much like the dust still settled in her clothes. Catching sight of them, she climbed down, avoiding the loose stones.

“If you found someone hurt we can take them to Poppy,” she said briskly. “We managed to move most of the more serious cases to St. Mungus already, so a few beds are already unoccupied, I just don’t understand the need for secrec-”

Blood left her face so suddenly Harry worried for a second she would pass out right in front of them. She looked at Snape in disbelief, eyebrows climbing up her forehead with the shock. Her mouth opened and closed, garbled words swallowed in big gulps. The boy’s scowl grew the more he shrunk away from her scrutiny, discomfort boiling over when she reached for his face. “What? Have I got something stuck on my head?” he hissed, trying to flee Harry’s arm.

McGonagall cupped Snape’s cheeks with her hands, her touch so light it made the boy stop struggling, eyes questioning. She drew a shuddery breath and withdrew, turning to Harry and his friends. “The Headmaster’s Office.”

He watched as she walked ahead, before looking at Ron. “You should go looking for the others now,” he said. “I already kept you long enough.”

“You didn’t keep me, you little wanker. I stayed because I wanted to,” he answered, punching his shoulder lightly. “But I should go anyway, mom and George will be needing a lot of attention.” He squeezed Harry’s arm with a sad smile and turned to the Great Hall. Hermione stood for a moment, uncertain, and Harry sighed.

“It’s ok, go with him for me,” he said softly. “I’ll be with them as soon as we solve this mess.”

She bit her lip. “I could stay. Maybe I could help with something, I don’t know,” she answered with a small voice. “I don’t feel very well leaving you alone.”

Harry’s heart leapt in his chest like a caged bird. The last time he left them he walked to his death. He swallowed around the knot of feelings, the pain he must have caused them when they thought him gone. He pulled her into a fierce hug and she squeezed him back, their love for him leaving him breathless. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” he murmured in her hair, before breaking apart, trying for a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.”

The answering smile was small, but sincere, and she followed Ron in the Hall. 

Snape shifted from one foot to another, visibly uncomfortable during the displays of affection, but he refrained from making a comment. He watched Hermione leave through his hair, still chewing his nail. The questions were piling up quickly behind his eyes, held back by the now raw fingertips firmly planted between his teeth. Harry hoped he had enough nails left to hold them at least until they arrived at the Headmaster's Office. “Come on,” he called. “We shouldn't leave her waiting too long.”

They went through empty halls and corridors, luck still on their side. More than once he had to double back and pull Snape away from a sight or another that caught his attention firmly enough to make him forget they had someplace to be, finally reaching the upended gargoyle.

“You've been here an awful lot since yesterday.”

“You don't say,” he answered, skipping over its head, urging Snape up in front of him.

They heard McGonagall's angry shouts from halfway up the stairwell, carrying easily even through the closed doors. Snape froze in front of him, suddenly defensive, and Harry remembered a stolen glimpse of a memory, an even smaller boy cowering away from a raging man. “She won't hurt you either,” he said, his hand reaching for the boy's back. “You don't need to be scared of her.” He flinched away.

“I'm not scared,” he snapped, indignant, and marched up the steps faster. Harry sighed and followed him.

For all his bravado, Snape simply stood in front of the doors, tense as a bowstring, clenching and unclenching his hands under the too long sleeves. Now that they were closer, Harry noticed he could only hear McGonagall, still going strong against an unidentified foe. He thought best to knock before entering.

With a soft squeak, the doors opened by themselves, and they entered the office. Snape had to be subtly pushed inside, dragging his heels, his fear now visible in the grey pallor of his face, in the sweat plastering his hair to his neck. 

The professor stood facing Dumbledore’s portrait, raging like a fury. The painting tried to reason, softly, but the usual spark in the Headmaster’s eyes was dimmed, subdued by his Deputy Head’s words. He saw them first, his gaze settling on Snape, and Harry could swear he saw shame reflected on them, before a wall of gentle sadness was pushed ahead. “My boys, come closer,” McGonagall turned to them, before glaring at the gesturing portrait and settling in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. “Please, forgive Minerva for her outburst. I fear I have once again been rather deserving of her harsh words.”

“Severus.” The boy jumped at being addressed directly by the painting, a wary question jumping up his throat. “Yes, I know who you are, though you might not know me. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I will answer all your questions to the best of my abilities in a moment.” Snape closed his mouth again with a click, eyes wide with surprise. “But first I need to know, and you’ll have to answer me truthfully. Are you hurt, in any way?”

A little crease appeared between the boy’s eyebrows, and he searched for Harry’s eyes, confused. Harry nodded for him to answer. He scowled back at the portrait, calmly awaiting his answer.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Truthfully? Nothing minor you might think it’s of little consequence?” He shook his head. “Good, very good,” Albus continued, smiling at them. “Minerva, don’t you think a spot of tea would do them good? The boy’s must surely be hungry.” The professor almost snarled at him. “Alright, might be pushing it too much, but please, at least take a seat,” he gestured to the remaining chairs. “I’m afraid this will take some time to unravel.”

He waited while they sat down, Snape gingerly running his hands through the soft fabric. Harry pulled a wooden chair from the desk and settled down closer to the boy, who kept in turns anxiously glancing at McGonagall as if she were a ticking bomb, and sneakily gawking at the curious baubles decorating the room. Harry bit back a smile at it, but his mood swiftly darkened when he glanced at the glowing Pensieve, still full of silvery memories. Hastily, he stood and went to it, rooting through his jeans’ pockets in search of the vial. Delicately, he picked the swirling memories with his wand and deposited them back in the little glass, sealing it and storing it back carefully. If they managed to bring the old Snape back and he found out Harry lost half his life’s memories he would definitely kill him. And he’d deserve it.

“Can you tell us how old you are,” the' Headmaster questioning the boy brought him back into focus. “And what is the last thing you remember, before Harry found you?”

Snape considered the painting for a few hearbeats before answering. “I’m nine.” _Fuck, he’s not even ten yet_ , Harry thought with a grimace. “But I’ll be ten in two months,” Snape continued, fiddling with a loose thread in his sleeve. “I remember going to sleep in my room, back at home, and then I woke up on the floor in that strange shanty.”

“Marvelous,” the portrait encouraged him. “Now, when you woke up, did you have some sort of jewelry on you?"

Harry had no idea where Dumbledore was going with this. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Snape touching his wrist under his sleeve, a slightly guilty look on his face. The boy noticed his frown and answered with one of his own. _This is bloody ridiculous_.

“Show him what you got there,” he snapped. “We can’t help you if you keep trying to hide everything from us!”

Snape shot him the dirtiest look he’d ever seen in someone so small, the little twat. He could see he was barely refraining from cussing him out by the way he was biting his cheek, probably cowed only by McGonagall’s intimidating presence. He pulled a thin silvery bracelet from his wrist. “I had this,” he mumbled. “It’s not mine.”

“Oh no, it’s certainly yours,” Dumbledore answered, pushing his glasses up his crooked nose. “I gave it to you, a little over a year ago. Although, I could also say I gave it to you in another lifetime...”

“Albus, if you don’t start speaking plainly right this second,” McGonagall interrupted Snape’s small _I don’t understand_ sharply. “I will most certainly set fire to your portrait, propriety be damned.”

Dumbledore sighed, regarding the boy sadly. Harry had a bad feeling about it when he breathed deeply and started talking again.

“This bracelet is another little invention of my dearest friend Nicholas. Along with the Stone, it’s quite unique in its abilities.” He seemed lost in his memories now, unaware of anyone besides the child in front of him. “Nicholas theorized this bracelet would be able to revert the damage caused by a violent death, bringing the person wearing it back to a point in their lives where they could have a chance of changing their fate,” he smiled at the boy. “A second chance.”

“It was never tested, of course,” he continued. “And, that I know of, Nicholas only ever made this one. He left it for me in his will, I imagine he thought I’d need it at some point. I kept it in my possession, with no intention to use it, but in my last year I watched Severus risking his life in a dangerous gamble time and time again, and the bracelet came to my mind. I gave it to him the night we left to search for the locket, only a few hours before the events at the Astronomy Tower,” the Headmaster turned to Harry, with an apologetic look. “I urged him to keep it with himself at all times, as a token. I never told him what it could possibly do.”

“I don’t understand.”

Snape’s voice was so small Harry wanted to scream. Here was the Headmaster, still toying with people’s lives without any regard to their wishes or desires, beyond the grave, _again_. The hysterical laugh that bubbled up his throat scared the boy even more and he clamped his mouth shut to contain a frustrated growl.

“I think what he means to say, in his roundabout way, is that you’ve lived the last thirty years, died, and was brought back as a child, with no say in it and no memory of anything, because he felt guilty,” he said between his teeth. “Can it at least be reverted?”

Dumbledore had the audacity of looking heartbroken at his outburst. Harry couldn’t feel bad for him right now. Maybe later, when he’d had time to think it over. But not now.

“I’m afraid not.”

Harry stood, kicking his chair. He felt ready to blast something to pieces, but Snape’s subtle cowering made him stop. 

“So that was you big plan for him?” McGonagall asked, her voice hard. “Use him and then send him back to the start, his opinion be damned?”

“I calculated it would bring him back to his late teens, if it even worked,” the Headmaster pleaded. “When he made choices that led him to that path. I never considered it would go so far back, so young.” A painted tear slid down his face, disappearing in his beard. “It was the only chance I could give him.”

The anger faded, leaving Harry empty. And tired. So damn tired. “You would’ve given him a better chance if you’d been honest with him.”

Harry turned to the boy, sitting silent and pale in a too colorful armchair. He was holding the bracelet so tight his knuckles turned white, the corners denting his skin. Harry pulled the chair back into place, sitting down by his side. Snape jumped at the soft touch over his own hands, hiding his face further under his sweaty hair. He looked a far cry from the boy who bit Ron just a little over an hour ago.

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, pointedly ignoring Dumbledore’s painting. She tapped her wand against her knee, pensive. A few moments later she seemed to have reached an agreement with her thoughts, nodding to herself before focusing back on the task. “Albus, we’ll talk more about this later,” she declared, leaving no room for discussion.

“Severus.” Her voice was gentle, and she waited patiently while the boy gathered himself enough to look at her. “What did you understand from all of this?”

He licked his lips once, twice. “I,” he swallowed, frowning, before continuing. “I was an adult?” She nodded at him to continue. “And I think, I think I died. And this thing made me a child again. But I don’t remember anything, and I can’t go back...”

He trailed off, glancing at the sorrowful painting. McGonagall nodded, before sighing and throwing a look at Harry over his head.

“That’s the gist of it, yes.” She waved her wand and a tea set came flying out of a cabinet, efficiently preparing itself. “I will look into it to the best of my abilities, but Nicholas Flamel was notorious for dealing with obscure branches of magic, and for his poor record keeping. It’ll take me time to find anything, and in the meantime you’ll need someplace to stay.”

The talk with his friends came back to Harry’s mind. Half of the wizarding community now would remember Snape as the turncoat who murdered Albus Dumbledore, and the other half, once the news about the battle started trickling out, as the turncoat who betrayed Voldemort. He knew very well how hard it would be to convince the first half of his true loyalties, given Snape’s infamous temperament. The second half… Yes, he wouldn’t be safe for quite some time.

“What about my mum?”

McGonagall froze in the act of serving the tea. She glanced at Dumbledore, but kept silent, pushing a cup in the boy’s hands. He looked at them timidly hopeful, frowning as the silence stretched. _No mention to his father_ , Harry’s mind supplied.

“Your mother died three years ago,” the portrait finally answered, reluctantly. “I’m so sorry, Severus.”

Snape deflated, sagging against his seat with a strangled little sob. He clutched his cup hard with shaky hands, staring vacantly at the floor while McGonagall tried to reassure him they would find a safe place for him to stay, and she would do her absolute best to solve this, throwing dirty looks at Dumbledore . Harry watched it all with a sort of vague detachment. 

_No peace_ , he thought. _No fucking peace in this world_.

He rubbed his face, pulling a curl out of his eye. He touched the little vial tucked in his pocket, its contents playing on his mind. A little boy cowering away from his father, another boy talking to the spiders in the ceiling of his cupboard.

Second chances…

 _Here we fucking go_ , he thought with a sigh. So tired.

“I’ll take him.”


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was already darkening by the time Harry stumbled through the fireplace on Grimmauld Place’s main sitting room. The ancient rug, covered in an undisturbed layer of dust, was now peppered with ash as the house’s new occupants shook the worst of it out of their clothes and hair. Snape shrugged away Harry’s arm the second he got his feet right under him, despite the rather desperate grasp he kept on it as they travelled through the Floo network.

It took them all day to sort out the mess. McGonagall at first protested his decision to take in the boy, but her resolution on that front crumbled at Albus’ soft reminder of the last day’s events. Afterwards, she insisted that Snape had to be seen by Madam Pomfrey before going anywhere, since no one, not even Dumbledore, knew what effects the bracelet could have caused on him, except the evident deaging. Snape, until now disturbingly quiet in his armchair, threw what could only be described as a tantrum at the prospect of being checked over by the matron. He screamed and raged, the fury shaking his bony little body and lashing out at the cabinet’s glass panels, desperate magic making spidery cracks appear in the ones closest to him. The anger gave way to tears again, and he folded in on himself, exhausted by the outburst.

Despite being shaken by the explosiveness of the boy’s fear (and it was fear, glinting savagely in his eyes) Harry stood his ground and did his best to calm him down. When it blew over, he pulled an unresisting Snape to his feet, and settled him again in the plush chair. McGonagall refreshed the tea and waited until the boy accepted a cup, sniffling. They left him under Albus’ watchful eyes, though for Harry it meant little in the way of reassurances at the moment.

Harry went to find his friends, while Minerva left for the overcrowded Infirmary, and he found them among the dead. There were already less bodies lined on the Great Hall’s floor than a few hours back, families arriving in troves to claim their wounded and deceased. Ron stood near Fred, accompanied only by Mrs. Weasley and George now, Hermione helping a distressed family find their way around. He called them discreetly from a distance, not ready to face other people yet, and explained the situation as best as he could.

He went back to the Headmaster’s office first and, to his surprise, heard Snape’s voice, soft and very quiet, when he pushed the door open a crack, followed by Dumbledore’s gentle encouragement. As he watched, the boy pointed his wand at the cracked glass panes, muttering Reparo at them. Most of the lines faded into nothing, leaving behind just a few scratches. Fixed, but not unscathed.

Snape bit his lip and turned to the portrait, who beamed proudly at him. Unwelcome anger twisted at Harry’s stomach, at Dumbledore charming the boy with kind words and praise after using the man for so long. For charming Harry the same way. The door creaked, announcing his presence. The boy turned to him suddenly, and whatever he saw in his face made him pocket his wand and slink back to his chair silently.

McGonagall arrived with the matron before his anger could make a bigger mess of it. Madam Pomfrey wasted no time on comments, a tightening her lips her only sign of outward displeasure, sitting down in front of the boy with diagnostic spells already flowing out of her wand.

After that things got blurry. He remembered discussing where to go, before thinking of Grimmauld Place. He remembered Albus’ portrait agreeing and suggesting they use the Floo.

(He had access to their Floo this whole time, through the Headmaster’s office. All this time.)

Snape remained stone silent, empty eyed and distant. He said nothing while the spells pronounced him healthy, if a little underweight, neither while they decided where he’d live. When Harry called him to leave, he spared a glance at the portrait smiling sadly at him and accepted the offered arm, stepping carefully into the roaring fire, his eyes very wide. 

A choked cough brought Harry back to the present. 

“I told you to keep your mouth and eyes shut,” he said tiredly. Snape just glared at him, coughing out a lungful of ash. He vanished the soot as best as he could. “You’ll remember next time, I suppose, though I don’t think it ever gets comfortable. I still hate it.” He reached for the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you some water.”

Snape flinched away from his touch, again, and Harry wanted to scream. “I’m fine, I don’t need your help!” 

The sharp answer sitting poised at the tip of his tongue shrivelled and died as the boy scrubbed his irritated eyes, sniffling wetly. He didn’t know wether it was from the Floo trip or not, but he looked so vulnerable like that Harry didn’t have the heart to berate him at all, exaggerated behavior or not. Sighing, he turned on his feet and made his way to the kitchen. A few beats later he heard small steps hurrying after him. 

Even cleaned out as it was, Grimmauld Place was still chilling enough to make one never want to stay alone in it. He passed through Mrs. Black’s portrait silently, Snape following at his heels with curiosity written all over his grimy face despite the distress of the day. Thankfully the Death Eaters didn’t seem to have made a mess of the house, or maybe Kreacher had put it to right again. Except for the dust, things looked about the same as they left them all those months back. 

He picked up two glasses, filling one to the brim and downing it in a single breath. He filled it again, the tap water blessedly cool, and drank slower this time, his parched throat singing with pleasure. He put the other glass on the table and tapped his wand against it, a fine layer of ice forming at the top. Magic seemed to put Snape at ease, so he didn’t feel like he was showing off.

It did have the desired effect. The frown dissolved into an amazed expression, eyebrows climbing up comically as he examined the frozen glass. Harry threw himself at a chair, resting his head on the cool surface of the table. He just had to get off his feet a little. And maybe close his eyes. Just a little.

“What is this place?”

The question jolted him back to consciousness. Harry blearily eyed the boy sitting sideways in front of him. He needed some coffee, and maybe sleep for a week, but judging by the way Snape kept craning his neck trying to take in everything at the same time he wouldn’t be getting either anytime soon.

“This is, hm, wait a second,” he yawned. He walked to the sink and unceremoniously dunked his head under the cold stream, icy water seeping through his hair and shirt. _That worked a treat_ , he thought shivering. “This is Grimmauld Place, the ancient home of the _most noble_ house of Black,” he said, unbridled sarcasm dripping in his voice, drying his hair with a dish towel.

“You’re a Black?” 

Harry paused at the disbelief in the boy’s voice. Snape looked puzzled by his answer, sizing him as if he were a piece that didn’t fit the picture in his head.

“Why, don’t think I look like one?” he teased.

“I don’t know how a Black’s supposed to look like” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “It’s just that Mam says, said,” his voice wavered at the correction. He bit his lip and continued. “She said purebloods used magic for everything, but you don’t. And you dress really muggle.”

 _He’s a smart little bugger_ , Harry thought, slightly amused. He didn’t think he had the strength to go through the issue of Snape’s family right now though.

“I’ve only ever been around one pureblood family, and I suppose she’s right, everything is magic,” he mused, remembering his awe at seeing the Burrow for the first time. “I’m not a Black, nor pureblood. The house was my godfather’s and I inherited it when he died, and I was raised muggle so,” he gestured with the dish towel. “It’s habit. I don’t tend to rely on magic too much, I guess.”

He could almost see the questions trampling over each other behind Snape’s eyes, the child’s curiosity fighting against his wariness. He was definitely much too tired to deal with all of them right now. “How about we find something to eat here?” he asked, hoping to distract him enough to stall the deluge _at least_ until the next morning. “I don’t know you, but I’m starving.”

Ignoring Snape’s scowl, he started searching the cabinets, hoping to find something canned that might still be good after so many months, or whatever passed for it in a magical house. He heard the boy joining the search, muttering under his breath. 

Their efforts yielded a big fat nothing, the cabinets filled to the brim with pots and pans, and about forty sets of china. “You know, this would be much easier if Kreacher was here,” Harry sighed after unearthing yet another tea set. Just how many did a house need anyway?

“Who’s Kreacher?”

A loud pop echoed in the kitchen, startling them both. Harry dropped the pot he was holding, hand flying for his wand on instinct, while Snape yelped, knocking his head on the sink he was currently kneeling under and falling on his arse.

Kreacher stood beside the boy, unimpressed. “Why is Master Harry bringing street urchins into the house?” He poked Snape in the side, ignoring the boy’s protests. “He’s filthy, sir.”

Laughing with relief, Harry pulled Snape up by the scruff. He kept his hold on the child, huffing with anger and flushed to the root of his hair. “Kreacher, this is Severus, he’ll be staying with us for- ouch, Snape, stop that!” The squirming boy stopped trying to stomp his foot. “Just sit down there, thanks. Now, as I was saying, he’ll be staying here with us, so please, be polite to him.” Kreacher eyed the boy scowling fiercely at him from the table, and nodded. “Great, that’s just great. Do you think you could fix us something to eat? We tried to find food on our own but there’s none around.”

Kreacher looked at him like he’d just insulted his whole family. “Only a bad elf would leave food around,” he said, lighting the stove with a snap of his fingers. Pots came flying out of the cabinets, knives sharpening themselves. Another snap and a variety of food appeared, ready to be prepared. “Wizards don’t need to worry about food with a good elf to take care of them.”

“Alright,” Harry answered, bewildered. 

Snape watched everything with wonder, his indignation at Kreacher all but forgotten. His amazement at even the most simple magic was endearing. Cute, even. 

_You’re going mad, Harry_ , he thought. _Truly, completely bonkers._

“The visitor’s bathroom is clean, sir,” Kreacher said, pointedly looking him over. _You’re dirtying the whole house_ went unsaid, but Harry caught the meaning. Washing did sound like a marvelous idea anyways.

“Are there any fresh clothes that fit us around the house? Preferably less than a century old,” he asked.

“The young masters’ bedrooms.”

Not so good. Thinking about Sirius right now was… not so good. It reminded him of the Forest and-

“Severus, c’mon,” he cut through his thoughts. Later he could think about it. Later. He forced himself to sound encouraging. “Let’s see if we can find something that fits you and then have a shower. We need it.”

Miraculously, the boy went without a fight. The mounted elf heads made him pause, a look of mild disgust mixed with intense interest on his face. He turned to Harry, questioning. “Please, don’t ask,” he answered. “Purebloods are just weird, I suppose.”

He chose to skip Regulus bedroom, lived in until his death. As a good Black child, he kept to traditional wizarding clothing, so Harry didn’t think he would find a pair of jeans anywhere among his things. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door to his godfather’s bedroom instead. Kreacher hadn’t fixed it, book pages and drawers littering the floor exactly like all those months ago. He felt his chest constricting, Sirius words in the Forest echoing in his mind while he stood among his godfather’s things. It had been quick and easy, like he said. No pain at all.

The sound of paper crunching under shoes brought his surroundings back into focus. He saw Snape picking up a coverless book, turning it into his hands. Harry felt the irrational urge to snap at him, to make him stop touching Sirius’ things. _He_ had made this mess, he tore through these things, destroying memories kept intact for decades, he-

 _Not this Snape_.

This Snape, apparently sensing the shift in Harry’s mood, dropped the book and stood tense, eyes flickering between him and the door. The blatant fear drained him again. Merlin, he was so fucked up.

“Come on,” he sighed, scrubbing eyes. “Let’s see if we can find the clothes.”

* * *

In the hour it took to scrub out the combined dirt caking both of them, Kreacher made a full course dinner, two kinds of dessert included. The smell drifting up the stairs had them rushing to the kitchen with their hair still dripping wet. 

Snape ate his first serving so fast Harry kept wondering how he managed the feat without choking. He wasn’t much further behind, his stomach so empty it felt like it was already trying to digest itself. The boy, dressed in a sweater and pyjama pants still a little too big for him, seemed to be barely restraining the urge to lick his empty plate. He eyed the dishes longingly, twisting the cutlery on restless fingers, but made no move to serve more. _Slightly underweight_. The diagnostic rang in his head.

“You can have more, if you want to,” he said, angling for nonchalance. “Kreacher always makes plenty.”

It did the trick. The boy piled his plate high with the shepherd’s pie and a generous serving of veggies, setting down to shovel the food in his mouth as fast as he could again. Kreacher refilled their glasses, looking over appraisingly, before nodding to himself.

“The little professor eats like a wild animal, but at least he appreciates the food.”

Snape pauses with his fork hovering halfway up, a confused frown set in place. Kreacher’s timing was _impeccable_.

“Professor?” he asked around the food stuffed in his mouth, much like Ron. Kreacher shrugged and vanished with a pop, leaving Harry to the task. “What did he mean?”

“You, well, the old you was a teacher at Hogwarts.”

“Me? A teacher?” he choked, high pitched with surprise. He coughed as the food caught in his throat, trying to swallow it down. Harry pushed the glass towards him and he downed the juice, a few drops trickling down his chin. He set down his glass, breathing deeply. “What did I teach? Was I good? How did it happ-”

“Calm down, you’ll choke again. I said I’d answer your questions and I will, you don’t need to ask them all at once.” Snape flushed, closing his mouth sharply. “Alright, first one was what. You taught Potions for a lot of time, and then Defense Against the Dark Arts, but only a year.” _He doesn’t need to know the details right now,_ he thought, hiding a grimace. “You were… very good at both things. Crazy good, actually.” No need to mention his teaching methods right now either.

“The how is…” he continued, scratching his chin. “Complicated. Dumbledore took you in, both as a teacher and, hm, something else, but it’s a really long story and I’m not sure how to tell it.” _Or how much of it_ , he thought.

How to tell a nine year old that he had grown up to follow an homicidal maniac, defect to the other side and spend the rest of his life as a double agent, just to be killed by said maniac. Harry had no fucking clue. He watched as their now empty plates vanished along with the main dishes, just to be replaced with a shiny pudding and fruits with cream. Focusing back on the boy, he prepared himself for the hard questions that would surely come. Instead, Snape had a huge grin stuck in his face, all crooked teeth and pride.

“So I was a damn good wizard, wasn’t I?”

The tension of anticipation left Harry in a strangled breath, disbelief taking its place. He looked at the self satisfied boy, not containing a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, don’t go getting all big-headed about it.”

“I knew it,” Snape said, contently digging in his dessert. “Mam always says, said…” he trailed off, smile melting away as if it was never there in the first place. He stared at the half-eaten pudding, biting his lip, and Harry thought he looked alarmingly close to tears again, all of sudden. He sniffed, finishing with a small voice. “She always said I would be a great wizard.”

His appetite disappeared and a deeply set weariness took its place in his body, filling his stomach with lead. He knew that pain, or at least part of it. Before Hogwarts, before magic, he had no memory of his parents to cherish, to hold him when he felt lost, and it always seemed like the worst possible kind of loss, an emptiness. Now he thought how much more that loss would hurt when you knew exactly what you were losing, and that you had no chance of having it back. 

He wasn’t equipped to deal with this, not when he was still running away from Remus’ death, from Fred’s. Running, avoiding at all costs, until one day grief caught up to him and he couldn’t hide any longer, that’s how he kept himself afloat all these years. He couldn’t put the boy through it too. 

“I’m sorry for your mother,” he tried, the words sounding hollow even as they left his mouth. Sighing, he tried again. “Look, I’m not good with this, but I know how it feels to miss your parents. Mine died too, many years ago, and I still feel it as if I had a piece of me missing, all the time.” Snape sniffed again, rubbing his red nose in the sleeve of his sweater, and shoved another forkful of pudding in his mouth. “I won’t lie saying it’ll stop hurting, because it doesn’t, but it’ll get easier.”

As he didn’t dissolve into either tears or angry shouts, Harry counted it as a victory, albeit a timid one. He let Snape finish his pudding, feeling about to black out from exhaustion. The Forest kept flashing into his mind, just to be replaced with King’s Cross, and the Forest again. He rubbed his eyes hard, light bursting in the blackness. When he fixed his glasses back into place all he saw was the boy, looking at him expectantly. He had to keep moving.

In the end, he couldn’t say if the decision to spend the night in their abandoned sleeping bags (clean, neatly rolled and stacked) in the living room like in their last stay was truly based on the reason he gave the boy (you never know what you can find in this house, better to deal with it in the morning), or if it was for the other reason he shoved to the back of his mind (he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep without listening to another person breathing nearby, to prove he wasn’t alone). As he settled down in his bag, he thought that the old Snape would be proud at his compartmentalization.

The boy went through the motions meekly, silent, and Harry couldn’t help but think it didn’t suit him at all. Angry, defiant, proud of his accomplishments, that was very Snape, but this subdued shadow felt fundamentally wrong.

He doused the lights and took off his glasses, casting one last glance at the blurry shape laying beside him. Snape had settled with his back towards him, giving no answer to Harry’s half-hearted good night. Biting back a sigh, he burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag. The clean smell of the fabric was soothing, and he felt his body relax. They were safe, it was all finally over. He could sleep now without worrying about watching his back. Sleep.

A soft sound startled him out of his attempt at sleep. Harry strained his ears trying to locate the source. _We’re safe_ , he thought when it didn’t repeat, _probably a doxy_. He closed his eyes, just to hear it again, but now he recognized it. 

Only a few sobs escaped here and there, muffled by the pillow Snape was clearly pushing his face into. They were so small and subtle Harry wouldn’t have heard them at all, if only he hadn’t spend a whole year running for his life and dreading every little sound in the night. He felt his chest squeezing, not knowing what to do. There was the chance that the boy wouldn’t take any attempt at consolation kindly, not with the way his mood changed at the drop of a hat. 

_Snivellus_. They mocked him for his emotions, even though he clearly had been already been trying to reign them in, to hide them. _Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves._

He was lost. 

He couldn’t take care of a child, who was he kidding? He had no idea what to do.

 _Ask someone_ , he thought. That’s what he would do, he could, Mrs.Weasley would help him, she had more experience with this than anyone else he knew. She would-

 _She just lost her son_ , _she just-_

She lost one of her children. Remus hadn’t had the chance to even learn how to do this. Tears pricked his eyes, and he rubbed them away sharply. Trying to breath through the lump stuck in his throat, Harry didn’t miss the irony of the scene, of them both trying to hide from the other they were very much _not fine_. Sitting up, he picked up his glasses back again, rubbing his burning eyes before putting them in place. Snape tensed at the rustle, his thin shoulders drawing up and going unnaturally still. Holding his breath to not make any sound. Harry knew the feeling well enough.

(He learned how to cry without making any sound very young. Neither seen nor heard, that’s what Petunia used to drill into him.)

He gathered himself, considering his options. Not acting wasn’t one of them, no matter how uncomfortable he felt.

A subtle draft raised the hair on his arms, chilled and ominous. Dust raised from the ground and furniture, wafting along the currant. The house felt like it was taking a deep breath, preparing to bellow, to curse. He jumped to his feet, wand ready, and saw Snape raising his head confused, eyes raw and red. Following the breeze to the foyer, he heard the ghost manifesting.

“I did not kill you, professor.”

Going over the bend right as image dissolved in a cloud of soot, he saw Hermione standing by the door, tired and gaunt. He took stock of the red eyes, pale face. Hands shaking, clutching that blessed purse. “Hey,” she said, a slightly watery smile blooming in her face.

“Hey, I thought you were staying at the Weasley’s.”

“That was my plan,” she tucked in a stray lock behind her ear. “But they were all split between aunt Muriel’s house and Shell Cottage since the Burrow was ransacked, and things were very crowded. I felt I was just getting underfoot, you know, so I thought I could spend the night here and go back in the morning.”

“Of course, obviously. I should’ve offered, but I didn’t even think of it.” Beckoning her to follow, they went through the corridor. “I can’t keep it in my mind that the Burrow isn’t there as always, just ready to receive people.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine, you had too much on your head, all things considered.” Pausing at the living room entry, they noticed a little hand clutching the door frame. Snape’s eyes were red rimmed and shiny under the lank hair partially covering his face. Hermione smiled gently at him. “Hi again, Severus.”

Pressing his lips together, he scowled, silent. Harry could see it all unfold: Hermione would try to be kind, Snape wouldn’t take it well, both parties would end up upset and Harry would have to bang his head against the wall in frustration. An intervention was necessary.

“Go back to bed. I’ll fix Hermione something to eat and then we’ll join you.”

“The house elf won’t let you fix nothing,” he muttered.

“I’ll ask him to do it then. Come on, off you go.”

The withering look he received was very characteristic, being a fixture in his school years. Good to know it was instinctive. The boy left, dragging his feet, throwing himself in the sleeping bag with a dramatic huff.

Harry watched the ridiculous display, hands in his hips. Shaking his head, he turned to Hermione, only to groan at her beaming face.

“I have to admit, I was a little concerned about the two of you alone,” she said, following him into the kitchen. “But it’s good to know I was wrong.”

“Yeah, don’t count your chickens yet. I still have plenty of time to fuck it up”

A plate loaded with leftovers appeared on the table, preserved under a subtle Stasis Charm, the moment they turned on the lights. A second later a full glass of juice popped into existence beside it. Harry made a mock curtsy, removing the spell with a flourish, pulling a small giggle out of Hermione. They sat in companionable silence while she ate.

“You know,” she said halfway through her plate, contemplative. “I always thought you had a bit in common. You and Snape, I mean.”

Startled, Harry looked at her questioning. She shrugged and continued. “The sarcasm, for one. You got into each other’s nerves so bad because you couldn’t resist needling each other.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyways, after I saw the memories, I realise I was right. Your childhoods seem to be a bit… similar.”

“Lots of people have bad childhoods, Mione. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you probably understand what he’s feeling better than most, though,” she answered with her mouth full, forgetting all the times she berated Ron for doing the same thing. 

He ran his hands through his hair, fingers catching on tangles he didn’t bother combing out in his earlier shower. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he said with a sigh. “I feel like I’m stumbling in the dark, trying to balance out between saying something that’ll help him and something that’ll send him into a frenzy again, but never knowing which it is before it happens.” He pulled on a big knot behind his left ear. “How is it that I can vanquish a damn Dark Lord but can’t comfort a child crying because he misses his mum?”

Gently, Hermione pulled his hands out of his hair. “You had a lot of practice on the first, fighting him since you were eleven,” she said. “And a lot of help. We'll help you with this too.”

Warmth spread through his chest, and the tears he'd been holding all night rolled down his cheeks unimpeded. He dried them with his sleeve, smiling at his friend. “Tell me about the Weasleys.”

“They'll be having the funeral the day after tomorrow,” she said, reading through his pretense easily but letting it go for now. “Bill said it's enough time to make the arrangements and to let their extended family know so they can attend. They have so many cousins, Harry.”

Hermione looked daunted at the fact. So pragmatic and yet disgruntled at the idea of a big extended family.

“Not used to it either?”

“Oh no, mum and dad are only children. I don’t even have cousins.”

The mention of her parents made Harry wince, the sacrifices she’d had to make still weighed heavily on his mind. He chastised himself for not remembering it earlier, amidst all the chaos. “Mione, what about your parents?” he asked, anxiously. “You still have to go fetch them back!”

She bit her lip. “The Memory Charms should hold fine a while longer, so I have time,” she smiled sadly. “Don’t get me wrong, I miss them terribly. It’s just… there’s so much to do here, it would be unfair to bring them back if I can’t spend time with them, explain things properly.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need to wait on our account-”

“Of course I’m sure, Harry,” she shook her head, decided. “I’ll let the dust settle, then I’ll bring them back. Now, which bathroom are you using?”

“The visitor’s on the first floor. I can find you some clean clothes, if you want.”

“No need, I still have some on my bag. You can go lay down, I’ll just wash up and join you too. I feel like I could sleep for a year, if only I had the time,” she stood, yawning. Stopping at the doorway, she looked back into the kitchen. “Oh, thank you for the food, Kreacher. It was delicious.”

The empty dishes disappeared with a pop, Kreacher’s subtle way of answering. She smiled at Harry and left.

Entering the living room, he watched Snape, now truly asleep. The boy had kept his face buried in his pillow as when he had tried to muffle his crying, but now his body was lax, his breathing deep and easy. So terribly small.

He was grateful that Hermione didn’t even question his decision to sleep on the floor, all of them bundled up together in one room. He was grateful she just padded carefully around them and laid down in the remaining sleeping bag, on Harry’s other side. She understood, no words needed.

He fell asleep listening to their breathing without even noticing.

* * *

“Vile Mudbloods! Children of filth! Desecrating the honour of the house of my forefathe-”

Harry jumped to his feet, wand in his hand and a curse ready on his tongue, before noticing he couldn’t see _shit_. As he crouched down to grope around for his glasses, he heard Hermione cursing her sleeping bag, trying to disentangle her legs from the vise of the snug fabric.

The glasses had been kicked a few feet away in his hurry to stand. He pushed them in his face and looked around at the same time Hermione finally freed herself from her trap, just in time to see Snape running in at top speed, as if chased by a stampede of angry hippogryphs.

“What the fuck is _that_?”

Nothing was amiss with the boy at first sight, except that he was looking very grey around the edges and his eyes were as big as saucers, which was to be expected when one first met Walburga Black’s portrait. Hermione came to the same conclusion, bending down at the waist to catch her breath. Looking him over again, Harry noticed the slight fidget with the sleeve of his sweater, the barely restrained urge to bite his nails. He crossed his arms, cocking his head to the side, and Snape _scowled_.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Snape sputtered, looking right the part of righteous anger.

“Bullshit. What. Did. You. Do?”

The boy tripped over his words, he was _just_ going to the kitchen, walking is no crime, while Hermione tutted _Now, Harry, that’s not fair_.

“He woke my Mistress’ from her sleep by poking her with his wand, master Harry,” Kreacher interrupted them, becoming visible long enough to throw a dirty look at Snape. “Less manners than a feral cat, that one.”

He popped away, not waiting to hear Snape’s rather impassioned _I’ll show you my manners, you wrinkled b-_ . “Severus, stop!” He flinched at the sharp order, and it was almost enough to make Harry guilty. “Alright, first rule: no touching strange things without _asking_ first. I told you yesterday, there’s no way to know what’s in this house,” he continued, softer this time. “That woman there was the last Mistress of the house, Walburga Black, so use your head and think what sort of cursed trinkets a deranged person like that would keep at home. There are things here that could seriously hurt you.”

Despite feeling very silly giving the boy a stern talk about safety (Harry Potter berating someone about safety, ridiculous) it worked as intended. Snape deflated a bit at every word, looking properly chastised at the end. Hermione threw him a strange glance, before leaving to silence the blasted portrait. It looked like approval.

Snape gave into the impulse and started biting away at his quicks. “I didn’t mean, I just-” he said, before shoving his fingers again in his mouth, a little blood already staining his nails.

The sight made Harry uncomfortable. Bending down to rummage inside Hermione’s purse, he summoned what was left of the Dittany, just a few drops at the bottom of the vial. Sitting down at a frankly tacky sofa, he beckoned the boy closer. He went, warily, stopping just short of reaching distance.

“Give me your hands.”

Eyes wide, Snape quickly hid them behind his back, tensing to flee, and Harry could slap himself when he understood.

“I’m not going to hurt you! It’s just, look, it’s just Dittany,” he showed him the little glass. “It’ll heal your fingers, that’s all! I promise. Ever heard of it?”

The boy stopped, breathing hard. He studied the vial for a few moments, frowning a little at Harry before slowly bringing his hands back to the front. Gently, Harry let a few drops fall on the abused fingers. The skin, torn and ragged, mended in a puff of green smoke. 

“There, that looks better now, doesn’t it?” he said, watching amused as Snape turned his hands in front of his face, seemingly dazzled yet again by such a small display of magic. “You knew about Dittany?”

He nodded. “From mam’s books.”

“Good, very good. Now, we should go find Hermione and then something to eat,” he said, standing and reaching for the boy’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch this time.

“That portrait is nothing like Dumbledore’s,” Snape said, waiting while Harry washed his face in the sink. “Was she like that? In person?”

Considering the frighteningly insightful question, Harry closed the door and steered him down the stairs again. “I never met her so I can say for sure,” he said, pensive. “My godfather was estranged from his family because of what they believed, you heard the things she said. But I don’t know if she was that mad or if the portrait spoiled in some way.” He scratched his head. “Honestly, you should ask Hermione. She’s the smart one.”

The kitchen table was laden with food to the point of groaning. Following Hermione’s exemple, they loaded their plates and dug in, the conversation forgotten.

For all of ten minutes.

“Why do you keep her there if she’s so awful?” he asked, mouth full of eggs.

Harry threw a pleading look at Hermione, and she sighed. “There’s a Permanent Sticking Charm in it. Even Dumbledore tried to undo it and failed, so she’s there for better or for worse.”

Snape frowned in thought, shovelling a spoonful of mushrooms in his mouth alongside the eggs. Harry munched on his toast, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.

It wasn’t.

“What about destroying it?”

“Magically protected,” Hermione answered, the saint that she was.

“Yeah, but what about muggle ways?”

They froze, staring at the boy. He waved around with his fork, a half-eaten sausage dripping grease on the freshly laundered tablecloth, something with a delicate brocade. Kreacher was going to kill them.

“Like, you know, ripping it with a knife,” he said, enthusiastic at the prospect of destruction. “Or burning it!”

“Severus, we can’t light a normal fire in the middle of the corridor, it’ll burn down the house,” Harry tried.

“Or paint removers! Like the old carpenter that lived three houses down, he used them on old furniture, before scrapping it off and painting it again,” he rambled on, ignoring Harry and Hermione’s astounded faces. “I bet purebloods wouldn’t think of protecting against them.”

Harry opened his mouth to rebuff the idea, but _maybe_ … He turned to Hermione and she was staring at the boy as if he’d just sprouted a pair of horns. It wasn’t possible that the boy had just solved a problem a whole host of adults, _magical_ adults at that, had failed so badly. Right?

Hermione took a deep breath. “That’s,” she said, faintly. “Frankly, a really promising idea, Severus.”

The blinding smile they received was shiny with sausage grease, but no less pleased for it. Clearing his throat, Harry nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind, but no fires in the corridor,” he added. He could only hope Snape would listen.

Pushing her plate away, Hermione stood, already dressed to leave. She still looked strangely at Snape, now polishing his plate with the last piece of toast. Shaking whatever thought she was ruminating away, she turned to Harry.

“You can Apparate to Shell Cottage tomorrow morning and go with us to the cemetery,” she said. Another glance at the boy. “I think it would be better to go alone. For now. The Weasleys know, but there’ll be too many people in attendance.”

“And it might not be safe, I know,” he finished. 

He was already dreading leaving Snape alone, but he didn’t know what else he could do. Maybe it would work towards gaining his confidence, the trust. Hermione smiled, squeezing his shoulder and started to walk away. Harry drummed his fingers on the table, sure he was missing something but unable to pinpoint exactly what it was. He looked at Snape again, scrubbing his dirty chin with his sleeve when there was a perfectly good, and neatly folded, napkin just by his left elbow, and he remembered.

“Mione, wait!”

She stopped with her hand on doorknob, a questioning eyebrow rising. He threw a spell at Mrs. Black portrait, cutting off her shriek at his shout, without sparing her a second glance.

“Severus and I need clothes, urgently, but I don’t have any money on me,” he explained. “And I doubt the goblins are very keen on seeing me right now.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, looking down at his poorly fitting pyjamas (an obscure band t-shirt, too long and with ripped sleeves, and checkered trousers, too short), and bent down to poke around in her purse. “The money I had is almost over, you won’t get much with it,” she said, elbow deep in the bag. Pulling out a wallet, she continued, “But you can use my dad’s debit card, the PIN is in a sticky note in the back.”

“You had a debit card on you?” he asked when she passed him the little plastic strip. Petunia never let him use hers for groceries.

“Well, it could’ve been useful,” she answered. “I drafted a good amount last summer because I imagined it would be hard to use an ATM on the run, and it didn’t run out, so I never brought it up. Just pay me later,” she interrupted his protests the moment he opened his mouth. “I have to go. Tomorrow morning at ten, Shell Cottage. We’ll wait for you, but don’t be late. I might stay with them tonight, so don’t worry if I don’t come back.”

He nodded dazedly at her, waving goodbye as she Disapparated. He had never bought clothes for himself, except for Madam Malkin. He’d never been to a department store. Still staring at the unassuming card, he entered the kitchen again and raised his head to address Snape.

Who, apparently, at seeing himself alone, gave in to the urge and was currently licking his plate. Kreacher stood in the table, tapping his foot and glowering at the boy. He didn’t seem to mind at all. 

Sighing, Harry squeezed the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes. He cleared his throat and Snape paused, tongue still stuck to the plate.

“What do you say about clothes’ shopping?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are a rollercoaster of emotions. There's not much plot, but hopefully some relationship building.


	3. Chapter 3

After three hours inside an enormous department store hauling around a cranky and combative nine year old Harry felt more than ready to cry and accept defeat. 

Clothes shopping shouldn’t be this difficult after Voldemort, it simply _shouldn’t_. He’d gone through so many hard spots and complicated situations, coming out relatively unscathed. This was a walk in the park compared to the rest of his life. 

He’d still trade it all for another go at the noseless bastard. Any day.

Having no real idea where to go, Harry ended up following the directions a solicitous old lady provided them with at a corner shop a block away from Grimmauld Place; after a ten minutes walk they were there.

Snape, almost skipping in a random good mood full bellies tended to give, seemed to shrink a bit more with each step they gave inside the store. Harry was sure pride was the only thing stopping the boy from hiding his face against his sleeve, instead choosing to hover as close as he could without actually touching. He couldn’t blame him for his behavior. The sheer variety of things, the random splashes of color and the _noise_. It was more than overwhelming.

Neither knew their sizes, nor exactly what they needed, so they started with the obvious. Shirts and trousers first, socks and pants. Sweaters, jackets, coats, because british summer was short lived and Harry would rather not have to repeat the experience anytime soon.

The first tiff came when Snape blatantly refused to get anything with short sleeves. Harry tried his best to reason that he would regret this around July, but seeing the boy both figuratively and literally stamp his foot down he quickly relented, biting back the urge to snap at him, since it would only serve to set him quite a few squares back on the task to win the boy’s trust. The same thing happened with pyjamas, but by now Harry knew better and just went along with it. Snape made a face at the children's selection, scowling at the bright colors and cartoonish prints, but ended up with an acceptable assortment of clothes of various tones. Except Gryffindor red. 

By the time they finished choosing their items the queue to the fitting rooms had visibly grown, causing a second squabble when the clerk told them children under twelve could only go in supervised.

“No! I’m not a baby,” Severus spat, flushing as bright as the Gryffindor red he so avoided. “I don’t need help to get dressed!”

“It’s not about help, lad,” said the bored looking woman. “It’s about we’re not responsible for anybody’s kids.”

“Couldn’t he just go with me in the adult’s room?” asked Harry, juggling the full bags around so he could have one free hand to hold Snape back. Just in case.

“Children’s clothes can only be tried on this side, sorry,” she answered. “Store policy, makes it easier to put them back in place later. You’ll have to take the other line after you finish helping him if you’re trying anything too.”

Wincing, Harry pushed the boy ahead, cutting through his _I don’t need help_ unceremoniously. He passed Snape his clothes, instructing him to come out once dressed so he could check the fit. The only answer he received was a scowl and a curtain closed in his face, but a few minutes later they were pulled open again. They repeated the movement a few times, Harry feeling grateful that at least they seemed to have chosen the right sizes. 

With only a few pieces left to try, Harry heard low cursing muffled through the curtains. “Severus, is everything alright?”

“It’s fine!”

Harry rolled his eyes and waited, not up to causing a scene. A few minutes (and many curses that earned him dirty looks from more than a few harried mums) later, Snape pulled open the curtains, a mussed button down around his shoulders.

“Can you help me with the buttons?” he muttered, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

The simple request surprised him enough to steal his words for a few moments, but he hastened to answer when he saw the boy hunching down on himself at his silence. “Of course. Come here.”

Unfastening the crooked buttons, he smoothed the shirt and fastened them back up. Snape stood very still throughout the ordeal, only his thin chest moving up and down rabbit fast denouncing his discomfort. 

“Pox mark?” he asked, pointing at the round scar just above the boy’s collarbone, before closing the last button.

Snape hummed, pulling away from him not so subtly. Harry frowned watching him make an aborted move up with his hand, pausing halfway through and biting his lip instead. Adult Snape may have been a master at subterfuge and dissimulation, but the one in front of him still wore his emotions openly, no matter how much he already tried to hold them back. He opened his mouth to comment, but decided to let it slide. For now. 

They finished the rest of the items in silence and braved the queue to the other fitting rooms, the boy sitting cross legged on the floor while he tried on his clothes. Snape was still unreasonably quiet as they waited to check out, until Harry noticed his attention straying to a pair of bright yellow trainers, surreptitiously glancing at the display through his hair when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. When he didn't say anything, Harry turned his attention back to the line, which seemed to be glued in place judging by the speed it was moving. A heartfelt sigh. Another. The fourth time it happened he decided to act.

“Go fetch a pair of those. Check if you’re getting the right size.”

The boy’s eyebrows rose almost up to his hairline. He gave a few tentative steps towards the colorful display when Harry pushed him, looking over his shoulder as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. A nod and he scampered, coming back with the shoes hugged tight against his chest.

Half an hour later they were _finally_ outside, laden with bags filled to capacity. Snape sat down on the kerb to put on his new trainers, hair sticking to his neck and cheeks in the humid morning air. He cut a rather ludicrous picture with his mismatched outfit, Harry thought, biting back a laughter that would certainly sour his fickle mood, but at least he seemed happier. 

Not willing to go back to Grimmauld Place just yet, Harry steered them towards a side alley. The bags were carefully shrunk and lightened, magic flowing freely through his newly fixed wand in a way he didn’t ever remember happening before. He couldn’t say if it was the absence of a malignant soul fragment tied to his own or simply relief, for not having his life on the line for the first time since he was born. 

“How about we stroll around for some time, see the sights?” The boy, still busy staring at his new shoes, raised his head. “I don’t fancy going back to that stuffy house in such a beautiful day before I really have to.”

Snape shrugged and Harry decided to take it as a yes. They walked in silence through the busy streets, following the crowd aimlessly. None of the passers by would ever imagine they’d both died less than two days ago; Harry himself could hardly believe it. Here in the middle of London, surrounded by cars and bright adverts, it all seemed so distant, a bad dream to be chased away by daylight. 

“What happened at Hogwarts?”

The question was muffled by the passing cars, so soft Harry almost missed it. Snape was intently staring at a McDonald’s on the opposite side of the road, head cocked to one side. When no answer came, he turned back to him, eyebrows furrowed. “You said you’d answer my questions, but you still didn’t explain anything.”

 _And there goes a perfectly pleasant morning_ , Harry thought, looking up to the vivid blue sky. Was it too late to hope for some sort of intervention from a higher power? 

“See? You just do that,” the boy continued, exasperation mounting in his voice. “You change the topic, or tell me to ask later-”

Definitely too late.

He looked at the other side of the street, Snape’s ranting just a lull in the background. The restaurant front flashed enticingly, promising an unmatched feast of junk food, if you were to believe Dudley’s tiresome bragging from all those years ago. Another thing Harry was never allowed.

The boy’s voice reached an anxious pitch Harry was swiftly learning to mean either violent cussing or tears, which meant he had to decide what to do. It wasn’t a hard choice, in the end. He would just do what he wished someone would’ve done for him. 

Gently, he reached over and touched Snape’s shoulder. He recoiled under his palm, breaking off with a little sob. 

“Let’s go over there,” said Harry, steering the boy to the crosswalk.

“Why?” Bewilderment was better than breakdown, he supposed.

“Because it’s almost lunch time and I always wanted to know if their food is as good as my cousin said,” he answered. “And before you start again, yes, I’ll answer your questions. I’d just rather do it slurping on a milkshake.”

The air inside was somewhat stifling, reeking of deep frying and sizzling meats. It was still too early for the rush hour, so their orders came quicker than expected and they settled to eat. Snape kept throwing him accusing glances between mouthfuls of nuggets, while he tried his best to focus on the ridiculously thick milkshake in front of him. It was very good indeed.

“So, about what happened to Hogwarts,” he finally said, chewing a bite of his burger. “Long story short, there was a battle. We fought this really crazy evil wizard, and his lackeys, because he wanted to dominate wizarding UK. Oh, and he hated muggleborns and everyone who was not pureblood, that wasn’t very nice either.”

Snape paused with a handful of fries halfway up his mouth, ketchup slowly dripping on the tray, and just… _blinked_. He frowned and blinked some more. It went on long enough Harry worried he might have put his foot in his mouth somehow, even though he thought he’d spoke clearly enough for the boy to understand. Lowering his fries, Snape bit his lip, head cocked to the side.

“A battle?” he finally asked, his voice uncertain. Harry hummed yes. “That’s how the castle got damaged?” Another hum. “And how I, I mean, the old me, that’s how he got hurt?”

“Yeah, by the crazy evil wizard himself.”

Remembering the fries, he stuffed them in his mouth, confused. “Why was he after me?”

Slurping his milkshake, Harry considered his answer. “Well, you worked as a spy, for many years actually,” he said, thoughtfully. “You were really good at it, so he considered you his right hand, sort of? But you were working against him.”

“And then he found out?” the boy asked. “That’s why he attacked me?”

“Actually, no. He went down thinking you were loyal to him, I took a lot of pleasure in rubbing it in his ugly face, by the way. He just thought you had something he needed, though you didn’t. That’s why he went after you.”

The boy gulped his milkshake loudly, deep in thought. Harry didn’t envy him, having to process so much so young. Maybe Dumbledore’s deception had been some sort of kindness after all. 

“You said _you_ rubbed in his face I was a spy,” said Snape, frowning to his nuggets. “Did you fight him?”

 _Smart boy_. “Yeah, I did.”

“But you’re…” he cut himself off, staring at him as if he were a piece that didn’t quite fit the picture he has in mind.

“What?”

“Really young?” Snape finished, uncertainty flashing in his big eyes.

“I was a baby the first time he went after me,” answered Harry. “Because a prophecy said a baby would be born with the power to defeat him. It said he would mark him as his equal,” he continued, pushing his fringe out of the way to uncover the scar across his brow. “And in the end it would have to be just the two of us. It was, and he lost.” Pulling his hair into place, he sat back in his seat, crossing his arms, and smiled. “But the thing is, I was never truly alone. I had so much help along the way and I would’ve been lost without it.” 

The doe shining above the freezing pond flashed in his mind, gentle and bright. His friends, always there for him, always, and so many other people, so many had fought and died just so he could have his chance. The knot of grief tangled in his ribcage, that had been suffocating him ever since it all ended, loosened a bit. Their sacrifices hadn’t been in vain, the pain of their losses hadn’t been in vain.

They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts, long enough the last fries turned spongy and lost their appeal. Snape slurped the last dregs of his milkshake, turning his questing gaze at him again, curiosity apparently not quenched yet.

“If it’s been so many years,” he stated carefully. “Does that mean Lily’s an adult? You said you were her relative.”

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Harry rubbed his chin. The boy looked hopeful again, like when he asked after his mother, hungry for at least one familiar face. It felt cruel, bursting this little remaining bubble of his.

“I am,” he answered, evading the first question. “Her son, actually.”

“Son?” Snape gasped.

He grabbed the boy’s sleeve before he managed to jump to his feet, holding him in place, but not before he sent the chair clattering to the floor. The cashier threw a suspicious glance in their direction at the commotion, eyes tight under the hard line of his brows. Harry smiled at him, apologetic, hand still secure around Snape’s wrist, casting a Muffliato around them the second the man averted his sight.

“What was the about?” he snapped, picking up the chair and pushing the boy in the seat again. “Do not get up again, or I’ll stick you to the chair.”

“That don’t make sense, you can’t be her son!” His voice was frantic, fists tight around the sticky chair cushion. 

“Why ever not? You already know it’s almost thirty years in your future, and you said it yourself that I have her eyes.” 

“Because you said you grew up muggle,” he wailed. “That your parents died when you were young! This means she’s d-” 

He swallowed the rest of the word, unable to finish; instead he just stared at him, eyes shining and red. Taking off his glasses with a sigh, Harry pressed his knuckles hard against his eyes, turning the boy in front of him into a blurry shape now, small and unassuming. Less demanding. “Yes,” he said, simply. The shadow stayed still, waiting.

“As I said, the evil wizard tried to kill me when I was a baby,” he continued. “I survived, but my parents didn’t. Growing up I lived with Lily’s sister, Petunia, not even knowing magic existed before I got my Hogwarts letter.” Fixing the glasses back in place, he looked at the stricken boy. “She was much like your father, I imagine. She hated magic...”

Trailing off, he waited for a reaction that was bound to come. More questions, yelling, weeping, maybe even a burst of stray magic lashing out at him, but none came. The boy was aghast and eerily still, his ashen face not so different from the one that stared at Harry pleadingly, bleeding on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, and yet he made no sound. 

“Severus?” he tried, reaching over the litter on the table. As his fingers brushed the worn fabric of his sweater, the boy shuddered, pulling in a ragged breath before squeezing his lips together.

Briefly, he considered pulling his hand back. The tension emanating from the small frame under his palm was unmistakable, trickling out of the boy in thick, roiling waves, regardless of how hard he was working to keep himself in check. Hermione was right, as she was always bound to be, he thought, they were alike in many more senses than just a bad childhood. His grasp on Snape’s shoulder was firm but gentle, as he tried to offer some measure of comfort, just a fraction of what he wished he’d had when he was this young. He didn’t try to shake it off.

“Maybe we should head home now, before Kreacher decides to abandon ship, huh?” Harry said lightly, with a tentative smile. “He must’ve noticed by now we won’t be having lunch there, so I imagine he’s already raring for a very long-winded passive aggressive rant, we shouldn’t let him stew in it for too long. What do you say?”

A strange emotion flashed through the black eyes as they focused on him, like a wary creature peeking through the bush just to vanish when you try to look at it directly. It was trampled on and carefully hid behind a wall of emptiness, even as he nodded in agreement. He kept his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they left the restaurant, while they searched for a secluded place to Apparate away, hoping the touch could offer some comfort he didn’t have words to voice. He’d always been shit at feelings.

“Just so you know, Apparition can be very uncomfortable the first times,” he said, the loud traffic a constant in the background. It would disguise the characteristic noise quite well, even though the place they chose barely offered any coverage. “Hold on tight to me and don’t let go.” 

As expected, Snape complied easily, the memory of their previous Floo trip still fresh in his mind, seizing his arm with both hands, the top of his dark haired head barely reaching Harry’s chest. _Pint sized_ , he couldn’t help but think. He raised his wand, destination clear in his mind, when a stray thought cropped up.

“I know you already learned a lot of difficult things,” he said, looking down. “But you can still ask more questions. This wasn’t an one time thing, alright?”

The hands on his arm tightened minutely, before the dark head nodded once. _Better than nothing_.

“Good, that’s good,” he sighed, “Hold on.” They Disapparated with a crack.

* * *

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he said as soon as the door opened, revealing Ron’s familiar shock of ginger hair. “I know I’m late, I’ve been wrangling Kreacher to get at least one room child proofed so Snape could stay there with his supervision, but he has no concept about what’s safe for a child—I have no idea how Sirius and Regulus reached adulthood living in the house, honestly—and then Snape heard me and threw a massive fit about needing a minder-”

“Mate, slow down,” Ron interjected, raising an eyebrow. “The others only left fifteen minutes ago, you know how it is to try to get everyone ready at once. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” said Harry, watching his friend close the door behind him. 

The wind blowing from the sea felt a bit warmer already, a sign of the summer to come, and Harry couldn’t avoid admiring how beautiful Shell Cottage looked there perked on the cliff, sparkling gently in the morning sun, as they walked towards the edge of the wards. Harry adjusted the neck of his borrowed black robes, the plainest one Kreacher managed to unearth from the dusty wardrobes. The shoulders were still uncomfortably tight even after the few hasty adjustments they managed to make over breakfast.

“So,” Ron started, side eyeing him. “The tiny menace still behaving like, well, a menace?”

Harry groaned, pulling a small chuckle out of Ron. “You have no idea. I thought we were going somewhere yesterday, you know, after I explained some things to him and all, but then he spent the rest of the day skulking around and silent as a post!” Pulling at his hair, he continued. “He only broke the moping this morning to scream at me that he wasn’t a baby and didn’t need a nanny.”

If he were to be fully honest with himself, Harry would have to admit he’d felt a spark of sentiment beyond duty of care for the boy after the talk they had over fries and milkshakes. That they’d be able to move past the wariness and coexist peacefully. The feeling was gone by dinnertime, driven off by mutinous glares at the simplest attempt at smalltalk, and the desire to shake the boy until his teeth rattled was back with a vengeance after being shouted at for ten minutes straight while he tried his best to use reason. 

Ron shook his head, still faintly amused. “For all it’s worth, I do think Hermione is right in saying you’re doing better than expected.” At Harry’s scoff, he added. “Well, you’re trying and you still have hair on your head. That’s better than I expected.”

“I don’t know, I feel like we go back ten steps for every step forward.” They stopped just past a pathetic little shrub, their skin breaking in gooseflesh as the wards washed over them. “I’m feeling like the worst friend in the world now, ranting like this to you when...”

“Ok, let’s stop the self pity right there. You’re here and that’s what matters,” Ron cut him off, reaching for his wand. “Besides, you complaining about the little bat made me laugh even with all this miserable sadness. Fred would approve, I think.”

Pulling his friend into a half hug, Harry waited while Ron cleared his throat, moving his hand to Ron’s forearm when the other raised his wand.

“Is he still though? A bat?”

The question had him breathing out a laugh, smirking back at Ron. They spun and the ocean breeze was replaced by bright sun and fields surrounding a village he didn’t recognize, their destination a small cemetery with an adjoined chapel off to one side, where he could see quite a lot of people milling about already. 

“He actually bought a pair of yellow trainers yesterday,” he said as they walked through a grassy path towards the gates.

“Yellow?” gasped Ron.

“Dandelion,” he nodded, spotting Hermione and Ginny standing under the shade of a gnarly oak, his heart leaping at the sight of the familiar long red hair. He'd missed her so much.

“You got lucky, there's people even more late than you,” Hermione said under the guise of greeting them.

He smiled at her lightly before turning back to Gin, taking in her red rimmed eyes, the paleness making her freckles more evident. Ron scoffed, taking Hermione's hand. “Come on, let's see if mum needs any help.” They stood alone, the wind gently rustling the leaves over their heads, watching people milling in to the chapel. 

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. The small calluses between her thumb and forefinger were still scratchy even though it had to be months since she last flew a broom.

Ginny looked at him with a watery smile. “Hey,” she sighed, lowering her head on the crook of his neck. It was all the invitation he needed to circle his arms around her and just breathe her in, feel how warm and _alive_ she was. A small part of his mind told him he shouldn’t feel so relieved it wasn’t her they were burying today, but he couldn’t avoid it, not when they were both here after everything, with their whole lives ahead.

She raised her sniffing, her hands carding through his too long hair. “You’re taller,” she smiled. “I didn’t notice it back at Hogwarts, but you are.”

“Finally taller than you.”

“It’s one inch, don’t let it get to your head,” she slapped his arm playfully. Sighing, she looked back at the chapel. “I always knew the chances of everyone coming out alive were almost none, truly, I knew. I thought I was prepared, I thought-”

“No one is truly prepared to lose someone they love,” he said. “Not really.”

“Yeah, I can see it now.” Ginny pulled a tissue out of her pocket, drying her eyes. “Come, they must be almost starting it by now.” 

He kept his arm around her waist as they walked down the path, feeling his frustrations melt away with the beautiful weather and the smell of her hair so close to him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around yesterday.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re here now,” she answered, looking over her shoulder before continuing. “Besides, Mione told me about your _little problem_.” When he just hummed, she prodded. “How is it even working, the two of you?”

“Oh, we’re getting on famously,” he said wryly. “He screams at me every chance he gets, I try not to strangle him, that sort of thing.”

“It was very strange when he caught us trying to steal the sword, you know,” said Ginny. “We’d barely seen him all year, so we decided to take the chance in case he wasn’t there. The moment he saw us going down with it I thought we were done for, that he’d finally let the Carrows do whatever they wanted with us.” She seemed lost in her memories, a shudder running through her. “But then he just disarmed us, took the sword and ushered us back up the office. He called the Carrows and gave one of his speeches, you know, and then _Forbidden Forest_. We were so surprised we didn’t even know how to react. It only made sense in hindsight.”

“Most of the things he did only make sense in hindsight,” Harry mused.

The chapel was full but far from crowded, the space inside expanded with spells to hold what seemed to be the population of a whole village, many of them sporting various shades of red hair or freckles, some he recognized only from Bill’s wedding. Heads turned to look at them with barely disguised curiosity as they navigated, making the hair at the back of his neck prickle with discomfort. Among the strangers he also spotted more than one familiar face, from both school and the Order, which he greeted readily.

His Weasleys were assembled around the coffin towards the back, dutifully accepting condolences here and there, and the first thing that caught his eye was Mrs Weasley, not crying but not altogether there, in somber dark robes like he’d never seen her wear; even her bright orange hair seemed washed out of its liveliness. He greeted the others as best as he could, getting barely a reaction out of George, before sitting beside Molly. It took her a few moments to register his presence, but when she did it was like a dam breaking; she held him, crying until his shoulder was wet through the robes and into the shirt underneath. 

There was no grand ceremony like Dumbledore’s had been; no great speech and dignitaries, much less charmed tombs. Harry supposed it would all look very familiar to a passing muggle, except for their choice of clothing; there was a coffin, pallbearers; family and friends talking about their loved one, flowers; and then it was over. His stomach felt heavy when he thought how many other funerals they’d be having in the coming week, how many goodbyes.

In the wake afterwards, he trailed close to Ron and Hermione in hopes to avoid attempts at chatting from strangers, who appeared to have lost their restraints after Fred had been put to rest. Looking around, he noticed George seemed to be slowly getting more aware of his surroundings where he sat flanked by Percy and Lee Jordan, periodically sipping a cup of water Angelina Johnson had thrust in his hand a few moments back. Ginny, Bill and Fleur were trying their best to push some food in Mrs Weasley, leaving Charlie to follow Mr Weasley through his aimless rounds over the perimeter of the chapel.

Clutching the cup in his hand, Harry moved his gaze away from the family, scanning the rest of the crowd from behind Ron's considerable height. He spotted Kingsley talking to Hestia Jones, most of his professors in a circle near the table with assorted finger foods, but what really caught his eye was a tall woman with light brown hair and a baby in her arms.

"Is that-" he asked Hermione, though he already knew the answer.

She craned her neck to see who he was pointing, frowning, before the realization dawned. “Oh I think it is, I think it’s Teddy!” she answered, excited. “Is that Tonks’ mum?”

“I’m not sure, I’ve only seen her the once and it was such an awful situation…” The woman turned and he could see her clearly. “No, it’s her.”

“Then you have to go there!” Hermione said, taking his cup from his hand, ignoring Ron’s astonished face. “Remus wanted you to be Teddy’s godfather, and Mrs Tonks lost both her daughter and husband, you need to talk to her!”

“I know, I know, I’m going,” said Harry trying to placate her; he received a rather strong push in response. “Damn Mione, I’m already going.”

He made his way as inconspicuous as possible, which meant everyone dropped what they were doing to stare at him unabashedly as he passed. He did his best to ignore it but _damn_ if he didn’t hate this part of being him. Still, it was easier to ignore the gawking than the churling feeling of guilt slowing him down at every step, the tremendous loss Andromeda Tonks endured hanging like chains around his neck.

“Mrs Tonks,” he said after clearing his throat. She turned to him impassive and once again he didn’t know what to say to her. He swallowed, flickering his eyes to the baby tightly swaddled in her arms; the turquoise hair from the picture had been replaced with a very ordinary light brown color. As he watched, the little nose scrunched up in his sleep and he sneezed, and, to his amazement, the wispy eyebrows flashed electric green before slowly reverting back to their original color.

Mrs Tonks raised an eyebrow at his gaping, making his cheeks warm. He cleared his throat once more and tried again, “Can we, hm, can we talk? Outside maybe?”

She looked him over before nodding and turning towards the nearest door, Harry at her heels. They found a bench against the back of the chapel overlooking a partly empty side of the cemetery, sitting down in silence. Teddy apparently woke up startled by the sudden lack of noise, fussing against the blanket holding his arms; Mrs Tonks unwrapped him and he promptly swung his little fists around, sticking one of them in his mouth. His eyes flickered honey for a moment, before settling in a deep black, much like Snape’s.

“I’d never felt so terrified, so _powerless_ ,” said Mrs Tonks while gently stroking the baby’s sparse hair. “As when Dora left to go after Remus. I pleaded with her to stay, and when that failed I used Teddy, I was as manipulative as my mother taught us to be since childhood, though it made me so _ashamed_ of myself.”

Her voice wavered, caught in her throat. “None of it worked, obviously,” she continued. “My daughter would’ve never had it any other way. She would never let Remus go through the risk alone, and she would never shy away from doing what was right. And I lost her, just like I lost Ted.”

No tears fell from her eyes as she talked, but again, Harry didn’t think she’d have many more left to cry. He thought about the common platitudes people used to express their condolences, unable to bring himself to say them. They felt too hollow, too lacking.

“I want to help,” he tried, wincing at how ingenuous he sounded. “I mean, I know don’t know each other, and I know nothing I do will be able to make their loss hurt any less, but I want to be there. For Teddy, and maybe for you too?”

Mrs Tonks eyed him critically, averting her gaze with a sigh. “Dora was rather taken by the idea of having you as his godfather,” she said. “She never had a bad word to say about you.”

“She was, well, she was amazing.”

Teddy gurgled, his little nose now a very good impression of a tomato, if he knew what a tomato was. They smiled at him, watching it shrink down to its original shape.

“I didn’t approve of their relationship, you know. I thought my daughter was chasing heartbreak by pursuing someone who wouldn’t do the same for her.” Mrs Tonks conjured a soft flannel, wiping the drool from the baby’s chubby chin. “I don’t believe half measures have any place when one is in love, and I thought I was proven right when he kept leaving, staying away for days on end after he learned about Teddy.” Her gaze turned to him, shrewd, and he felt pinned down by the intensity. “And then one day all of sudden, he comes home, asking for her forgiveness, promising to do better, to try to be better. I asked him where he’d been, and all he answered was _Harry_. I wonder what changed his mind.”

“I, hm, I called him a coward. For leaving his family.”

She raised her eyebrows, nodding thoughtfully. “I see… Well, I suppose I should thank you for reminding him he was a good man.” The silence that fell after she finished was comfortable, punctuated only by birds chirping happily among the trees and Teddy’s bubbling. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Excuse me?” he failed to keep the mild note of terror out of his voice, much to her evident amusement.

“If you indeed wish to be his godfather, I would expect you’d like to hold him, among other things.”

“I've never held a baby, I don’t know how!”

“Nonsense, there’s nothing to know,” she said, adjusting the bundle in her arms. “For now you just keep his head on the crook of your elbow and hold him with the rest of your arm, he’s still quite small, you see.” She positioned him correctly and gently passed him the baby, his warm weight fitting perfectly across his arm. Noticing his wide eyed stare, she added, “Don’t worry, they’re sturdier than they look.”

Slowly the panic abated, leaving only a sense of wonder Harry didn’t know how to describe; Teddy scrunched his face at him, inducing a ferocious swell of protectiveness. He felt lightheaded.

“Well done, Mr Potter.”

“Oh no, just Harry is fine,” he said, unable to contain a smile, Mrs Tonks answering with one of her own, albeit melancholic. He would accept it as a victory.

They talked about Teddy, about Remus and Tonks; he told her about his brief encounter with Ted Tonks while he was on the run, eliciting a few stray tears. The funeral arrangements were being made by the Ministry and, surprisingly, by Remus’ still living father Harry didn’t even know about. His offer to help was politely declined, deemed unnecessary at the moment, but nevertheless much appreciated.

As he watched Andromeda—at her insistence—disappear through a fireplace ensconced in the back of the chapel, Harry wondered how the _fuck_ that woman was related to both Bellatrix and Narcissa. She was… normal.

Shaking his head, he started making his way back to the Weasleys through the now much thinner mass of people, just to be intercepted by no other than Professor McGonagall.

“Oh, Harry, I’ve wanted to ask you all morning how things are going with our _little friend_.”

“Fits and starts, professor. When I think it’s getting better he clams up again and we have to start over,” he winced. Remembering the boy’s reaction to his scolding over the incident with Mrs Black’s portrait, he added. “Do you know something about his childhood? His home life, I mean.”

“I know it wasn’t favourable, but I was never privy to any details,” she answered. “Horace was the one responsible for him, and even after Severus started working with us he still kept his personal life very much under wraps. Why do you ask?”

“Just curiosity, I suppose,” said Harry, not completely truthful. He knew what he saw in the memories, which, added with the boy’s tendency to shy away from his hand, painted a rather grim picture. “I know it is too early to ask, but nothing on the bracelet yet?”

“I’ve barely had the time to breath since then, so no, nothing,” the Professor answered, swirling the dregs of her tea around the cup. “I’ll probably have to enlist some help, Filius maybe, to help me look, otherwise we’ll never get anywhere. Between Hogwarts and the Ministry, there’s just too much to be done in too little time, we barely even know where to start.”

“We?”

“Me and Kingsley, mostly. I expect Arthur will join the efforts, once he’s able.” They looked at the family, before she continued, “I imagine you’ll be called in to help too, sometime in a not so distant future.”

“I want to help, any way I can.” He already felt like he was slacking off, spending a day on shopping and fast food while the others worked.

The Professor threw him a look that said _That’s obvious, Mr Potter, do better_ , shaking her head. “We’ll talk about it again once the funerals are over, but now tell me, has Severus already tried to make one of his mad experiments?”

 _What the-_ he frowned. “Experiments?”

“Yes, he was rather famous for them in his school days. Trying to find different methods, alternatives to what the books taught; asking completely tangential questions during class,” answered McGonagall, a fond smile in her face. “Drove us all spare actually. Not much of a rule breaker, though I suspect it had more to do with his ability to not get caught than with following rules. Why, one time he somehow caused such an explosion in the Potions classroom during one of his experiments Horace banned him from it for a month! He’s always been too curious for his own good.”

And Harry had left him this morning amid a fit against needing supervision, in a house still full of who knows what sort dangerous artifacts just waiting for an incautious target, such as a small boy who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.

 _Oh bugger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Ginny's here! Brief appearence, but we'll see more of her in the future. Also Andromeda and Teddy, they'll be regulars too. One day I'll write a chapter in less than 20 days, one day.


	4. Chapter 4

Leaving the wake in such a hurry made Harry feel like the biggest dick in the world, but he couldn’t help it. McGonagall’s words kept playing again and again in his head, each time bringing a new possibly disastrous scenario involving Snape and one cursed object or another. As he turned to Disapparate, his mind conveniently supplied him with the thought that he shouldn’t limit his fears to just objects. There was also potential spell damage. _Shit_.

His feet touched the front step of Grimmauld Place already in motion. _Potions accident?_ he thought, pushing the heavy wooden door. If anyone could manage to find ingredients in this dump of a house, it would be Snape. He dispelled the Headmaster’s ghost almost as an afterthought, looking around for signs of… something. And he found them. _Oh heavens_ , he found them.

The living room was in a state. Various books seemed to be fighting, tearing at each other in a flurry of loose pages, while at least one screamed and cursed heartily from its place on the floor. Mrs Weasley was certainly justified in telling them to most books they didn’t recognize by title alone; the Black’s choices of reading would fit right into the Restricted Section’s list of Most Dangerous Books—the ones who came with the warning _Do not bleed on the volumes if you lose an appendage or you will be banned from the Library_. Among the disturbing scene unfolding in the room, one book in particular, angrily chewing the carpet, caught Harry’s eye. Dangling between its pages was a piece of fabric he recognized as the sleeve of the sweater the boy was using when he left.

Backtracking, he pulled off the stuffy black robes while going down the corridor, leaving the mess behind for more pressing matters. The noise trickled off as he went deeper into the house, but still no sign of Snape, or Kreacher for that matter. While he was trying to decide where to search first, he heard muffled voices coming down from the kitchen, and he felt relief washing through him, followed by exasperation. The words turned clearer as he silently went down the steps, the others still unaware of his presence.

“I still say that’s not a potion.” Kreacher sounded bored and thoroughly unimpressed by whatever was going on in the kitchen.

“It is! Or it would be if this sodding book would just stand still,” Severus replied hotly, seemingly struggling to hold something down. “The changes I made make sense, I’m telling ya.”

“Still not a potion,” said Kreacher. Harry poked his face inside just enough to see them; the boy sitting cross-legged on the counter by the stove, one hand carefully stirring a bubbling pot and another grappling with a heavy leather bound book trying to shake loose of his hands, while Kreacher polished crystalware just behind him, indeed looking very bored. “But what I really don’t understand is why you’re even doing this.”

“Because I have to go back to bein’ adult so I can take care of myself, I told you already,” said Severus, pushing his hair back to peer at the mix. He frowned. “I can solve my own problems just fine, don’t need nobody’s pity.”

Kreacher laughed. “You think Master Harry is helping you out of pity?” He shook his head, amused. “And I thought you were smart.”

“I’m smart!” replied Severus, pulling back the scrambling book. He huffed when Kreacher just raised his eyebrow, pulling something out of a dusty jar. After some careful examination he seemed to decide it was good enough, and threw it in the pot, the mixture releasing an ominous hiss. Maybe he should intervene.

“He’s got no reason to be helping me.” With a shrug, he released the book and peered inside again, resuming his stirring. He was already more coordinated than Harry had ever been. “And besides, I always solve my own problems. It’s better like this, because then I don’t bother no one and don’t need to wai—shit!”

Many things happened at once: the book, which had been stealthily crawling away from the boy, jumped out of the counter, landing on the floor with a dull sound; Severus, startled, turned away from the potion searching for the source of the noise, missing the steady stirring rhythm. The potion bubbled over violently the exact moment he missed a counter clockwise turn; Severus scrambled for his wand, hissing _Evanesco_ at it to no avail, and it exploded.

Before Harry could do more than raise his own wand, Kreacher shielded both of them, along with the flutes and decanters he was _still_ polishing, completely unbothered by the mess. The potion sizzled off various kitchen surfaces, slowly dripping on the floor from cabinet doors. Snape, already gaping and heaving, paled sharply when he noticed Harry standing by the entrance, doing his very best to appear stern.

“You said you could handle him,” said Harry, addressing the still unruffled Kreacher, leaving the boy to stew in his worry for a little while longer.

The elf frowned up at him from his perch. “I did handle him just fine if I could say so, master Harry.”

“Then why is the kitchen drenched in goop? Not to mention the living room, at this time I imagine some of the books are already crawling up the stairs to the first floor…”

“Silly master, the books can’t leave the room by themselves,” Kreacher snorted, “and the little professor was just experimenting, like all magical children do. They need to test their powers and abilities.”

“And you don’t think it’s dangerous at all?”

“How could it be dangerous if I was supervising the whole time?” As if to demonstrate, he poked the stony faced boy in the ribs. “Just within arm’s reach.”

“We’ll have to talk about your concept of safety sometime if you’re to watch him again.” Severus opened his mouth to protest, but one glare had him swallowing back his words. “If you dare saying right now you don’t need a minder, you’ll be cleaning this whole kitchen by hand, I swear.” Sighing, Harry bent down to pick up the book slowly trying to creep past him, leafing through the pages depicting an assortment of potions so complex he could barely understand. “What were you trying to do anyway?”

Snape mumbled unintelligibly through his hair, trying to find a way to get down from the counter without slipping on the spilled potion.

“I didn’t quite catch that, mind repeating it?”

The boy threw him a dirty look. “An Ageing Potion,” he answered, hoping down successfully after some calculation. “I wanted to get back to my real age and get out of your hair.”

“That’s an O.W.L. level potion, and if you knew more about it beyond the name you’d know it’s neither permanent, nor would it give back your memories.” He stepped closer and the boy shrunk back, his foot sliding in the mess. He righted himself in one of the chairs and eyed Harry warily, waiting, clutching at the backrest with white knuckles, and Harry deflated. “I promised you I’d help, so did Professor McGonagall, but you’ll have to be patient. Hm, Kreacher, you think an Evanesco would work on everything?”

The old elf snapped his fingers and the mess vanished. “Should I put the living room back to rights too, master Harry?”

“You didn’t need to do this one to begin with—” Kreacher threw him a dismayed look and he relented. “Alright, it’s fine. We’ll do the living room, but I promise we’ll call you if we need help.”

With a nod, Kreacher sent the glasses floating back to their places and disappeared with a dry pop. Harry sat down in a chair across the one Snape was still gripping as if it were a lifesaver, setting the book on the table with a sigh.

“I told you about the battle, about evil wizard—you even saw the state Hogwarts was in, remember?—” The boy nodded, hair jumping about his face. “Many people got hurt in that battle, and many people died. The Ministry is in pieces, our whole world is in pieces, mourning. We need time to fix things, to be at least functional again before we can get into researching what happened to you. Do you understand that? It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s just we didn’t have time yet.”

Severus bit his lip and nodded again, but he didn’t seem too reassured. Weaving his hands through his hair, Harry slumped in his chair, the accumulated tension draining suddenly and leaving him drained yet again. He was starting to think he’d never feel fully restored again.

“What is my punishment?”

“Hm?” Raising his head, Harry turned to the boy, bewildered. “Are you really asking for punishment?”

“I’m not asking,” he snapped, before averting his eyes. Tapping his foot against the chair, he chewed his words for a long moment, finally mumbling, “I just don’t like not knowing.”

He could sympathize with that specific feeling—the wait was sometimes worse than the punishment, though it had been a close thing in the Dursleys’ house—but it certainly wasn’t what he had in mind. If he was honest, the furthest thing from his mind right now was punishing the boy, but he supposed _some_ reckoning was in order.

“You can run after the books going crazy in the living room,” he said, after some consideration. At Snape’s shocked face he added, “Do you _want_ more?”

A quick shake of head was the answer he got, round eyes staring at him still. The boy turned towards the door, looking back at him in confirmation, and he waved him away. Snape ran out of the kitchen, his feet thumping on the floor above, thankfully moving towards the living room. Sighing again, Harry tapped his fingers on the book in front of him, considering his options; leaving the boy alone with Kreacher again was not on the table anymore, no matter what the old elf said. That meant either bringing him along whenever he went out, or leaving him with someone else.

Something banged above him, followed by muffled swearing. Pushing his thoughts back, Harry stood with a groan, and trudged up to find out what was happening _now_.

The boy was crouching by the sofa, waving a spindly arm underneath it with barely restrained fury while cussing under his breath. _He has the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever seen_ , thought Harry after yet another tirade raised his eyebrows. With a victorious gasp, he pulled out a velvety looking book from its hiding place, quickly kneeling over it to hold it in place, but his pleased grin fell when he noticed Harry.

“They giving you trouble?”

Snape shrugged, grabbing the wriggling volume with both hands while standing up, before shoving it in the first empty space he saw on the nearest shelf. He moved on to one of the fighting pairs, conveniently the one furthest away from Harry. Still wary.

“I heard you mentioning you made changes to the potion,” said Harry, plopping down on the ugly sofa while flipping through the potions book with feigned nonchalance. The boy’s shoulders tightened but kept shut, opting for tackling the dragon skin covered book currently ripping apart a puny magazine. “What did you change?”

With a grunt, Snape pulled the tome away from its victim and pushed it in an empty spot to his left. “Bananas for dried bananas,” he answered, inspecting the torn paper at his feet. Pulling out his wand, he muttered a soft Reparo, but the pieces only fluttered a little before settling again under his disappointed gaze.

“Why?” asked Harry, throwing a silent charm in his direction. The pages mended perfectly, and Snape scowled.

He worried his lip while collecting a few calmer books. Harry could almost see the opposing thoughts fighting each other in his little head: preen over what he certainly imagined would be a genial idea, or keep quiet for fear of rebuttal.

“I just, I thought it would make it last longer because dried bananas last longer than fresh ones,” he answered softly as he placed the last book down, bracing for ridicule.

“Hm, that makes some sense,” said Harry. It was a really impressive association for someone so young, and Harry himself could say he’d never have thought of it. The boy turned sharply to look at him, mouth gaping. “What? It does. Not that I know much about potions, but I can see why you thought it would work.”

“Oh,” answered Snape, timidly. He stood by the shelves, shifting from foot to foot while twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingers, a spark of wonder in his eyes. A mad idea popped up in Harry’s mind and quickly he decided it had enough merit to be worth a try.

“Come sit here a minute.” Tapping the seat beside him, Harry waited while the boy gathered enough nerve, but in the end he still kept himself as far away as possible, perching right at the edge of the seat. “You like experimenting with magic, I can see that.” A nod, black eyes scanning his face. “Then I want to propose a deal: I’ll teach you some basic spells and I’ll let you try some easier potions, First or Second year stuff, while I’m at home _if_ you promise not to try these while you’re alone. Or only with Kreacher. He’s doing alright, but I don’t know if I trust his definition of dangerous.”

“You’d really teach me?”

Harry smiled at the eagerness and surprise pitching the boy’s voice higher. “I will, if you just try to be good.” This time his nod was energic, making the long hair jump around like a living thing, and Harry laughed. “Good, that’s good then. Did you have lunch already?”

“Yeah, Kreacher made me spaghetti!” said Snape, his previous wariness all but forgotten. “I never had it before, it’s so strange and it looks like a load of worms in your plate, but it’s really good. There was even a raw egg in the sauce…”

Reclining against the backrest, Harry listened while the boy sung his praises to Kreacher’s carbonara, nodding at all the right places. One crisis averted successfully.

* * *

Choosing and readying their rooms took the rest of their day even with Kreacher’s help smoothing the process, the old house still seemingly fighting against these unwanted intruders. Harry took the same room he shared with Ron the first time he stayed at Grimmauld Place, urging Snape to take one in the same floor. A gasp brought him back to the spacious room just opposite his own he’d just left, after making sure there was nothing there to hurt its new occupant. He joined Snape where he stood reclining over one of the tall windows, his face squashed on the stained glass, looking down at what he was pointing, just to be shocked into silence. A garden, wild and overgrown, could be seen on the ground level.

“It’s beautiful,” said Snape, a little breathless. “Can we go there?”

It would take years to discover all of this house’s mysteries, he thought, since he could still be shocked with an entire garden after spending months on it without ever knowing it existed. He convinced the boy to wait until the morning, charging him with putting away his new clothes in the drawers, while Kreacher changed the sheets.

By the time he woke up, Snape was already in the in the living room hugging an enormous bowl of porridge sprinkled with more strawberries than he could count, again peering at the windows.

“There’s some strange people outside,” he said between mouthfuls, “One guy has a really old camera.”

“What?” exclaimed Harry, snapping out of his sleep haze in a second. Pushing his glasses into place, he looked over the boy, easily finding the “strange” people he mentioned. Magic folk really need to learn how to dress muggle. “Ugh, journalists,” he muttered. “At least I don’t see old Rita, or we’d have to find some bug spray.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind, just finish your food,” answered Harry, instinctively patting the soft head beside his chest. He retracted his hand when Snape threw him a startled look. “They can’t see us,” he hurried to add, hoping to diffuse any awkwardness before it settled. It was too damn early for it, and he didn’t even know why his mind thought it would be nice to pet the black hair, risking a bite. “There’s a Fidelius Charm on the house, so only people who know it from the Secret Keeper can see it. At least I hope it’s still holding,” he mused. “Shit, I have no idea if it’s still holding.

Abandoning his spot by the window, Harry paced up and down the room, wracking his brain for any information on Fidelius he could remember. Dumbledore had been the Keeper, but after his death everyone he’d shared the location with became it too, being able to pass it ahead themselves. The incident with Yaxley popped into his mind along with a wave of apprehension. He knew too little, that wouldn’t do at all.

“Expecto Patronum,” he said, pulling his wand out of his back pocket. The stag pranced into existence, shining gently in the morning light streaming through the room. “A message for Hermione. Mione, there’s lots of journalists camped in front of Grimmauld Place and I’m not sure if they can see it or not. Yaxley must’ve shared the location with the other Death Eaters, how does the Fidelius stands in this case? That’s it, go.”

As it ran out of the room, he turned back to the boy to see him by his own elbow, watching the place where the patronus vanished through the wall.

“That’s spell is really tuff,” he said, munching on a strawberry. Shaking himself, he looked at Harry. “What’s a Fidelius?”

While they waited for Hermione’s answer, he explained as best as he could what he knew about the charm, which wasn’t that much if he were to be honest. The pang of guilt he felt for not taking his education seriously was short-lived, interrupted by Kreacher’s excellent timing; porridge and toast for himself, though with a few less strawberries, artfully arranged in a tray. He dug in sitting on the floor, watching the boy once again lick his plate clean, the urge to laugh at such unrestrained behavior bittersweet, tainted by the knowledge that it came from knowing hunger firsthand.

The otter jumped in the room as he chewed his last piece of toast, swirling around a wide eyed Snape. “Harry, I think you should be fine for the time being,” it said in Hermione’s voice, a bit muffled as though she spoke while eating too. “There’s the issue with the Death Eaters, but most of them are either dead or imprisoned, and I don’t see the ones still at large trying to break into Grimmauld Place right now. You should see about renewing the Fidelius though, maybe talk to Bill—no, Ron, thanks, I just want this toast—” Harry laughed at the interruption, the otter mildly annoyed at it. “Anyway, Ginny and I will be around for dinner, and then we can talk more.”

With a backflip it was gone. “I can’t wait to learn that spell,” said Snape, a little breathless. “That was Hermione’s?”

“Yeah, but don’t go getting your hopes up. It’s a very difficult spell, it’ll be more than a few years before you manage it.” Harry stood, picking up his plates and Snape’s bowl intent on taking them to the kitchen, but they simply vanished from his hands. Sighing, he turned to the boy again. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth and put on some shoes? We can explore that garden and maybe try out a few simple spells.”

Nodding enthusiastically, Snape left him for the upstairs. Down in the kitchen, he found Kreacher coordinating a slew of crockery, washing, drying and putting itself away.

“I could’ve brought them down, you know,” said Harry. The glare he received could wither the liveliest of plants. “Ginny and Hermione will be in for dinner.”

“I’ll make more food,” answered Kreacher, nodding.

“I also wanted to know where’s the door to the back garden; Severus saw it yesterday and I promised we’d take a look together.”

“Following the main corridor, behind the purple tapestry,” said the elf, startled. “My mistress didn’t make use of it, so she told Kreacher to hide the useless door from sight. It’s been abandoned for around twenty years.”

“Do you think there’ll be too much weird stuff there, like in the house?” asked Harry, pulling some tangled curls apart in a vain attempt to unmake some knots.

“Magical creatures are attracted by magical houses and plants, master, so probably yes.”

Rapid thumps on the stairs above them signed the boy was done and soon enough he poked his head in, hair sticking to his still damp face, flushed and eager. “I got my wand!” he exclaimed.

Kreacher narrowed his eyes at him, shaking his head while muttering under his breath “No manners at all, shameless.” Changing tactics when he saw it didn’t faze his target at all, he added “The little professor will overheat with these long sleeves.”

“No, I won’t,” answered Snape, pulling down at his already overlong cuffs, suddenly uncomfortable.

Harry intervened before the good mood turned sour, and they left the elf to his devices. Finding the purple tapestry was easy enough—a big, gaudy, moth-eaten monstrosity like that was bound to be eye catching—but the door behind it seemed mostly fused in by humidity and time. Alohomora didn’t work, the rusty lock shuddering and creaking to no avail. “Don’t repeat this spell alone,” he warned, and blasted the door off its hinges with a well placed Bombarda. They stepped over the splinters littering the knee high grass and all Harry could think was Aunt Petunia’s face if she saw the state of this garden.

Snape’s soft gasps at this discovery or that marked their progress through the overgrowth. They found benches and statues swallowed by creeping vines; a cracked, but clearly once majestic fountain full of still rain water, littered with tadpoles; a colony of gnomes, smaller but bolder than the ones at the Burrow. Among common rose bushes and hydrangeas they found smatterings of magical plants too. Quivering flutterby bushes grew on a patch of lavender, knotgrass under the peonies; twice Harry had to pull the boy away from a wandering tentacle.

“Mam woulda loved this so much,” Snape sighed, gently brushing his fingers over the blue petals of a solitary moly growing beside the fountain. “She always wanted a place to grow herbs, but we only have a small patio. She had some on tins and old pots and they always grew pretty...”

There was sadness laced through his voice, but this time it was steady, no sign of the tears that followed other mentions to his mother so far; Harry couldn’t help but admire his resilience.

He cleared a patch of grass and they set to practice a series of easy spells. Snape’s first Lumos almost blinded them even in the bright sunlight, dancing spots chasing each other in Harry’s eyes for a good half an hour afterwards; the second didn’t look much stronger than a fairy light. He managed a passable Reparo on his first try, one of the biggest rifts in the fountain smoothing to a barely visible line. They worked down on the First year charms with inconstant success, but the failures didn’t seem to bother the boy quite as much as Harry feared they would; he was diligent, hard-working, soaking on the smallest praise like dried out grass after a good rain.

“That was amazing!” he exclaimed after being disarmed for the third time. It felt right being the one to teach Snape this spell, after learning it from the man all those years ago.

 _Severus,_ his mind supplied, amused at the pleased flush blooming from hair to neck on the sweaty face in front of him. _Maybe you should start using his name when you think of him_. The delight he showed when Lily said his name in the memories hinted at a life Harry himself would rather not dwell on; his name spat out like a foul thing, when it was said at all. He’d mostly been _the boy_ for the Dursleys; he supposed it’d been the same for Severus.

The ease between them waned by dinner time. Severus locked himself away under the pretense of showering, but half an hour later there was still no sign of him. Ginny and Hermione arrived, the former recoiling away from Dumbledore’s shadow before Mione dispelled it.

“We’ll have to take a look at that some time,” said Hermione shaking her head.

“I know, but it’s one of Mad-Eye’s, I have no idea where to start looking.” He hugged his friend firstly, turning to a pale Ginny afterwards. She smiled wanly at him, but it turned genuine after a soft kiss.

“You should ask Bill,” she said while they moved to the dining room Kreacher insisted in using for the night, “If someone knows how to remove this, it’ll be him.”

“Where’s Severus?” asked Hermione, peeking into the living room as the went through its door.

“Still showering. We found a garden in the back, if you can believe it, and we’ve spent most of the day there so he really needed it. Although, it’s been quite some time; I think he might be trying to avoid you.”

Hermione grimaced. “Whatever for?” asked Ginny.”

“I don’t think he likes people much—”

Kreacher's arrival with a pop interrupted him roughly. “Dinner is ready to be served, master Harry and guests,” he said with a bow.

“Kreacher, you know Ginny and Hermione, you don't need to bow—” The disapproving glare was _very_ pointed. “Nevermind. I’ll just go up and see if I can drag Severus to the table.”

Climbing the stairs two steps at a time, he knocked first in the bathroom door, receiving no answer. The bedroom door was also closed, but he could hear shuffling inside even muffled through the heavy wood. “Dinner is ready,” he called. The shuffling stopped, and for a few moments he thought he'd go ignored, then the boy finally piped “I’m not hungry now.”

Harry sighed, running his hands through his hair. He wasn't that perceptive, but even he could recognize that as a very poor attempt at fibbing. The doorknob turned with a squeak under his hand, revealing a wet haired Severus huddled in the windowsill with a book, freshly washed and mint smelling. “You haven’t left one crumb in your plate in any meal so far, so forgive me for not believing that,” he said after a beat. “Thank you for not locking the door, though. Now put on your shoes and let’s eat, I think Kreacher made lasagna.”

“I said I'm fine. I can eat tomorrow.” The boy dug his socked toes in the wood, burrowing further as if anticipating a struggle.

“You'd rather go hungry than eat down with us? It’s just Hermione and Ginny, they’re both nice and you even know Mione.” A tense shrug, eyes flickering towards his direction without quite reaching his face. Harry thought about insisting only for a second, but that seemed to be exactly what Severus expected, to have his opinion disregarded; another course of action was needed. “I’d like you to eat with us, but if you really would rather not just go down to the kitchens afterwards and ask for a plate,” he said softly, “I don’t want you going hungry for nothing.”

He closed the door behind himself, going down the steps slowly, straining his ears; only when he arrived at the landing he heard telltale click of the latch opening and Severus hesitantly coming down after him. He kept quiet while he introduced Ginny as Ron’s sister, looking up at her from under his damp hair with thinly veiled suspicion; she tried her best to smile at him but it came out strained.

They ate between stilted attempts at conversation, Severus in stony silence. He didn’t lick his plate this time, suddenly shy about his etiquette; no attempt at second helpings was made either. Dessert came, loosening some inhibitions.

“They already fixed a new Fidelius around the Burrow, dad’s the Keeper,” said Ginny around her spoon. “Oh, we’re all going there tomorrow to try to fix the damage enough to move back in. I thought we could also take a look at Luna’s house too, since her father’s in no condition and it would be too hard for her alone.” She didn’t notice the look he shared with Hermione at the mention of Xenophilius Lovegood, the silent agreement to ignore what happened at their house at least for now. “You could come, have lunch with us and help around.”

“Of course I’ll go,” he answered, eager to be useful. A second later he winced, “Severus’ll have to come along too, though. If it’s not any trouble.”

Ginny’s “Of course it’s not trouble,” mingled with the boy’s indignant “Why?”; they stared at each other, Severus scowling at Ginny’s raised eyebrow.

“You know why,” said Harry, as patiently as he could. “I already said you won’t be staying here alone with Kreacher while we don’t fix his definitions of age appropriate activities.”

“He said experimenting was fine,” he answered in an insistent voice, a vexed flush creeping up his cheeks denouncing an imminent explosion, “And he’s right, I didn’t even damage nothing.”

“What were you experimenting on?” intervened Hermione.

Severus deflated, confused. He closed his mouth with a click, staring hard at her trying to find the catch, still searching for a hint of mockery to his interests; nothing was found. “Ageing Potion,” he mumbled at last.

“Wow, that’s interesting. Do you wanna go to the library and explain to me what you tried to do?” She hushed her voice, conspiratorially adding, “I’m way better than Harry at Potions, you know? I bet I can understand what you were trying to do, maybe even help you with it?” Uncertain, Severus bit his lip, but his curiosity won in the end. “Let’s go to the living room then, and you can fetch me the book with the instructions you used.”

He nodded, fleeing the table in a hurry. Hermione looked pointedly at Harry. “You owe me.”

“So much,” he answered gratefully, watching her leave after the boy, dropping his head back with a sigh. Ginny hummed thoughtfully. “What?” he asked, seeing her pick her bowl of ice cream and settling down on the chair by his side.

“Is he always like that?”

“Moody? Yeah, pretty much. It was better this morning, but as I said, I don’t think he likes people.” Harry took off his glasses to scrub his eyes, turning Ginny into a vague fiery shape. “I’m sorry for leaving like that yesterday.” She hummed again, and he closed the distance between them. His nose brushed against her cheek, the comfortable flowery smell mixing with sweet chocolate; a hand sneaked up to his neck, just holding, and he placed a kiss on her jaw. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” she breathed against him. “Lost, I guess. I’m relieved it’s over, and then guilty for feeling this because it cost me my brother. I’m angry and happy; scared and trilled.” Ginny’s voice grew vexed, the feelings trampling over each other to come out after being kept bottled for so long; for all she was outspoken, Ginny had a tendency to keep her cards close to her chest. “I can’t fathom going back to school, not after last year. I just wanted to skip to a full _after_ , but how can I do that if I have to go back to the same place where I was _before_?”

“Will you really be going back?” asked Harry, throat tight because that’s how he felt. He felt all that and more, without knowing how to put all that confusion to words.

She snorted in that crude way he loved so much. “As if mum would let me skimp on my N.E.W.T.s,” answered Ginny. Her shape picked up his glasses, cleaning them carefully before pushing them back on his face; her freckled face came back into sharp focus. “I told her I wouldn’t need an O in Transfiguration to apply for professional quidditch, but she won’t hear it.” As if seeing his hesitation, she asked “What about you? Will I have your illustrious company this year or will I have to settle for holidays and Hogsmeade trips?”

“I, I don’t—” Sighing, he rested his head on her shoulder. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now,” he finally said, her fingers twirling the curls at the base of his skull. “I’ve been so focused on surviving, on taking him down, all these years that I never really planned an after. I thought about being an Auror but…”

He trailed off. Would he really want to keep on fighting? He’d already felt so tired, the prospect of doing that for another score of years felt daunting, no matter how good he was at it. But again, wouldn’t he be wasting his potential, being selfish, if he didn’t do this?

“Hmm. The way I see it,” answered Ginny, “you have all the time in the world now to decide what you want to do with your life. No sword hanging over your head, no maniac after your blood, etc. You don’t have to know it right now. And promise me one thing,” she continued, pushing him away so he could look at him directly, “Forget about anyone’s expectations. You don’t owe anyone anything—no, listen to me.” Her fingers shushed his protests gently but firmly. “You gave them your life. If you decide you want to be an Auror, great! If you decide you wanna be a goddamn florist, also great; we’ll be with you all the way and sod anyone who doesn’t agree.”

No words came when he tried to answer, his throat tight as a fist, but his heart somersaulting in his ribcage because she _understood_. The kiss was as an attempt at conveying what he couldn’t say, what he didn’t know how to say, and it tasted like home. When they split, still holding each other, Harry felt a little less lost.

“I think,” he tried, voice hoarse and unresponsive at first, “I think we should go relieve Mione. It’s been long enough already.”

Ginny laughed, flushed, and they left for the living room. Severus’ voice drifting to the corridor was bursting with barely contained excitement, punctuated by Hermione’s very thoughtful and in-depth answers.

“I mean, I do think it’s bullshit correlating counter-clockwise turns with more harmful potions,” said Hermione to a very enraptured Severus, mouth hanging open and all, “but I can’t close my eyes to the evidence. Poisons will have a prevalence of them, while antidotes rely on clockwise turns—oh, hey!”

The boy turned to them with a jump, getting to his feet as if caught doing something forbidden.

“We had such a lovely discussion about potions theory,” said Hermione, closing the dusty book they’d been studying together a minute ago. She sent it back to its place with a wave of her wand, smiling at them. “I have to say, Severus here is a much better debate partner than you or Ron have ever been.”

“I don’t think that’s very hard, Mione,” said Ginny with a grin. Hermione shrugged at Harry’s mock complaint. “We should be going, mum will pull at my ear if we come in too late.”

“We’ll be there tomorrow, at 9?” asked Harry, trading places with Hermione. She squeezed Severus’ shoulder when she passed by his side, making him jump again; his big eyes followed her with bewilderment.

Ginny nodded, and the boy caught up with what they meant. “I don’t need to go,” he protested to Harry, “I ain’t a baby to need a nanny all time.”

“The state of the kitchen when I arrived yesterday tells me a different tale, y’know.” Severus flushed hard, gearing up for an answer certainly littered with swearing, only to be cut off by Ginny.

“I think if we work fast we can have some spare time afterwards before nightfall,” she addressed the boy, one eyebrow raised. “If some of our brooms are still intact we can go for a flight around the house. Now, we really have to go, see you _both_ tomorrow.” She winked at Harry, who had to bite back a laugh. “C’mon, Mione!”

Hermione threw hasty goodbyes at them over her shoulder before being dragged away, their sudden retreat stunning Severus into silence. He stood rooted to the floor, staring at the doorway through which they left; his shoulders slumped and he deflated with a long sigh. It was bloody hilarious. When he finally turned to Harry, it was with such a puzzled look that he couldn’t contain a snort.

* * *

The only apt description to Severus behavior the following morning was whining. He got dressed at snail pace, dragging his feet through the motions and glaring at Harry all the while. Kreacher, the traitor, tried to plead the boy’s case; he supposed the old elf had to be really enjoying having a child in the house again because he even looked slightly teary eyed when he saw them off.

They Apparated in the green fields near the Burrow, the Fidelius already working to hide the house from his sight. A few moments later Ron appeared from thin air, causing Severus to grip his arm again, having just released it from the tight hold he kept while they travelled.

“Here, read this,” said Ron, passing them a crumpled slip of parchment. “The boy too.”

“The boy has a name,” mumbled Severus, accepting the paper after Harry finished reading. He frowned at it. “What does it mean?”

“Cheekier than you’re tall, eh? C’mon,” said Ron, beckoning a scowling Severus closer. For a moment Harry thought he wouldn’t go, but then spite seemed to win over his wariness and he released his sleeve, stepping closer to the other. Ron pointed, “Look over there, carefully.”

“I don’t see nothing,” answered Severus, “Just fields and a few trees—oh!”

The Burrow condensed into view, a mirage turning solid in a blink where before stood only empty nothing. Severus’ eyes shone as he gasped again, turning to Harry.

“Amazing, innit?” said Ron, amused. Hermione seemed to have shared some tips on how to make a good impression with the boy, and Harry could only be grateful. They started walking through the swaying grass, Severus almost skipping ahead in anticipation. “It’s us, Bill and dad here today; Charlie, Ginny, and Mione left to help out Luna. Her house is worse off than ours, so it’s the least we could do,” he shrugged at Harry, “Even if her dad tried to sell us off.”

Burn marks could be seen on the outer walls; chunks of plaster missing, tiles scattered in shards on the grassy yard, and the front door seemed to have been blasted off its hinges. With each step Harry felt more furious at the mindless, pointless violence, the destruction of a home simply to get back at the family they couldn’t reach; it had to be even harder for the Weasleys. As they rounded to the back, Bill poked his head out of a shattered window, long hair half covered in dust, causing Severus to freeze.

“Dad, they’re here! Hey, Harry,” called Bill, a good natured smile brightening his still tired features. “It’ll be good to have another pair of hands around, or two,” he added.

Severus surreptitiously inched closer to Harry, staring at the newcomer through his hair with equal measures of curiosity and caution. He noticed the black eyes kept flickering between Bill’s long ponytail and earring.

“Harry! And my goodness, is that Severus with you?”

Mr Weasley stepped over the debris cluttering the back porch, a trail of half burnt furniture orderly following him out . At his appearance Severus dropped all pretenses and actually grabbed his sleeve, the fierce scowl a little too wobbly around the edges to feel believable. He was _scared_. Of Mr Weasley?

“The kids told us what happened with you,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by the boy shrinking away, but his tone turned softer and he stopped more than a few paces away. “Such an incredible thing! And you Harry, so good of you to take him in.”

The awkward silence lasted until Harry cleared his throat. “These are Bill and Mr Weasley,” said Harry towards his elbow; his only answer was a hum. “So, how can we help?”

“We need to clean the debri first, to assess the damage before we can start fixing it,” said Bill. “Dad and I will take the upper floors, while you and Ron can work on the first and the ground floor. Take out the furniture, trinkets, and place them outside so we can sort through what can be fixed and what is junk. Once it’s empty we can start on fixing it proper.”

“You don’t need to be scared of them. The Weasleys are some of the nicest people I’ve ever know,” whispered Harry while they followed the others from a little distance.

“Am not scared,” muttered Severus.

“Ok, just so you know. What do you say you try the Levitation Charm again? It might work out today.”

They worked in tandem, his spellwork merging comfortably with Ron’s to remove bits of frayed carpet and shelves; armchairs and even Mrs Weasley knitting basket, surprisingly preserved. The piles growing in the yard could be neater, like Bill and Mr Weasley’s but they made steady progress regardless. Severus gravitated towards the cookbooks and magazines spread around the floor, stacking them by hand; once in a while Harry heard him muttering _Wingardium Leviosa_ under his breath, followed by a soft _bugger_ when it repeatedly didn’t work. He kept turning the boy’s reaction in his head over and over; he didn’t seem comfortable with the girls but it didn’t go as far as recognizable fear. It had been even worse with Mr Weasley than it had been with Bill, and the implication chilled Harry to the bone.

“Ha! It worked!”

He looked over to where Severus was crouching beside a single ripped page unsteadily floating about a feet off the floor, a radiant smile full of crooked teeth lighting up his whole face. “Well done, I knew you’d get it,” said Harry, the small praise making him redden up to his ears.

“What worked?” asked Ron, poking his head from up in the first floor. He spotted Severus and laughed. “Levi-o-sa and not Levio-sa, right?” Harry laughed, the boy staring at them in confusion. “I had a real hard time with this charm back then, but I did topple down a mountain troll with it in my First Year, if you must know. Saved Harry and Hermione’s lives.”

Ron took great pleasure in recounting his prowesses to a brand new audience, much to Severus’ delight. Bill and Mr Weasley came down while he was going through the enchanted chess game, the later clutching a yellow book in against his chest as if his life depended on it, the edges a little charred but _Auto Repair for Dummies_ still legible in the bright cover.

“The damage isn’t as bad as we feared upstairs, mostly the attic and your room, Ron,” said Mr Weasley, raising his book, “but look who survived! I’m a little overwhelmed with the mess in the garage, it’ll take a lifetime to sort through it and none of you can even help me because you can’t tell a toaster and a mixer apart. Oh, maybe you can help me, Harry! You certainly know this stuff.”

“We can’t spare both of you if we’re to finish this today, dad,” said Bill.

“Oh, why don’t you take the little tyke here?” said Ron, patting Severus head, who stiffened. He was staring hard at the book in Mr Weasley’s hands, trying to make it fit in whatever image he had previously formed in his head. “You know those muggle things, you grew up with them, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know—” started Harry, taking in the furrow between his heavy brows, but to his surprise Severus just muttered a soft “Ok,” breathing deeply before following an elated Mr Weasley out the house.

The three of them worked while Harry turned the boy’s actions in his mind, so absorbed he missed Ron calling him the first two times.

“I said, there’s been an attempt at withdrawal from the Lestrange’s account in Gringotts. Thought you’d want to know.”

“What happened?” asked Harry, “Was it successful?”

“Nah, the goblins blocked it and alerted the Ministry,” interjected Bill. A wooden beam turned shiny and new under his precise spellwork, while they worked on the stairs. “They might still be angry at you for breaking into their bank and stealing their dragon, but Voldemort killed too many of them afterwards. They’re doubling down on people with known associations with him quite strongly, this was just one of the cases.”

“Did any of the Lestranges survive? I know Bellatrix is dead because I saw it, but I haven’t heard about the brothers.”

“Rabastan was among the dead, so it leaves us with Rodolphus. He’s the most wanted out of the Death Eaters still at large, but he’s fundless at least. We can only hope it’ll be a question of time.”

“Let’s only hope he’s caught before he has the chance to hurt someone,” said Ron, gloomily, and Harry agreed with the sentiment, but he also knew cornered animals tended to strike hard. It left him uneasy.

“You’ll have to face them sometime,” said Bill, teasingly trying to break the tension. He clarified, “The goblins. They’ll want some sort of apology and compensation for the dragon, Boy-Who-Lived-Twice or not.”

Cheeks burning, Harry shook his head while both Weasleys laughed at his discomfort, but at least the conversation ended in a high note. They worked, mending, fixing, and replacing what they could, the house looking more and more like the cozy place he’d come to love with each new spell. From up to down, they were only missing the last set of stairs and ground floor when Charlie, Ginny and Hermione arrived with Luna in tow, her home apparently too damaged for them to fix on their own safely. Bill produced three baskets from one of his pockets, spreading out a small feast for their lunch, and Harry excused himself to call the two people still missing.

The garage’s metallic roof was bent and holed, chunks of various house appliances spread in a wide circle around it. Through the open door, he could hear their voices, and for the second time in three days, Harry caught himself eavesdropping. The old Snape would’ve sneered at the mere thought.

“But you can make toast with a wave of your wand,” came Severus’ insistent voice, in a sullen, confused tone, “Why would you even want a toaster, or any of these stupid things?”

“I think they’re ingenious,” replied Mr Weasley. “ _We_ can make a lot of things with a wave of our wands, but we still had to copy muggles in radios and record players, in photo cameras, in flushing toilets even! We could make a teapot tap dance but we couldn’t hear our music if not played live before we adapted their inventions to work with our magic.”

He paused then, and Harry peeked inside through one of the gaps in the walls. Severus was sitting on the floor with a pile of plugs and sockets, carefully separating them in two boxes, another one with lamps already full by his side; Mr Weasley dusting an old TV with a cracked screen.

“In a way,” continued Mr Weasley, “I think technology is their own kind of magic. The wizarding world is just too foolish to not see that we could be living with the best of both worlds.”

With a polite knock, he interrupted the silence that fell after Mr Weasley’s world, calling them to eat. Severus was quiet during lunch and afterwards, staying close to Harry most of the time, pensive, while they worked. With seven people, they were done in no time, the Burrow fully furnished and ready to receive its family back the very next day; Mr Weasley made the honours and fixed the front door, the last piece remaining, a teary sigh escaping him at the sight.

Along with Bill and Charlie, he excused himself, to give the rest of their family the good news, Luna following not far behind to visit her father at St Mungus, leaving the rest to pass the time as they saw fit.

“I think I mentioned a flight yesterday if we finished early,” saig Ginny, stretching her back with a groan. “Two of our old Cleansweeps survived mostly intact, wanna take them for a spin?”

“Mam says quidditch is for goons with bristles for brains,” muttered Severus.

Hermione snorted loudly, doing her best to hide the giggles behind her fist, but Ron’s deeply offended “Oi!” tipped her over the edge; she doubled over, shoulders shaking with deep, uncontrollable laughter.

“Very funny, Mione, yeah. Alright, first thing: flying isn’t _only_ for quidditch,” said Ginny, raising her voice over Hermione’s squeaks. “It’s a very respectable means of transportation. And second, your mum is wrong—let me finish, don’t get angry yet—just like my mum is wrong quite a lot.” Severus bit back his retort, flashing an annoyed glare at her. She continued unfazed. “Everyone is wrong about some things, and that’s fine. You can dislike brooms, and that’s also fine, but the only way to know is trying it yourself. So I’ll ask again, wanna go for a spin?”

Once again Harry thought he’d decline, only this time out of sheer stubbornness, but he followed Ginny to the shed, pulling down his sleeves anxiously.

“It’ll be good to come back home,” said Ron, throwing himself down on the grass by the front door.

They settled beside him, watching Ginny explain the basics. The old brooms were missing more than a few bristles, nicked and scratched, even scorched in some places, but holding Severus’ weight with only a little wobble when he finally managed to hover the way she was demonstrating. The boy seemed uncertain, wanting to be excited at his success but unsure if it would be welcome after his reluctance; Ginny’s gentle teasing broke the barriers and he finally smiled.

“We were speaking yesterday about, well, about the future,” said Harry, tearing his gaze away from the endearing scene. “About what we’re gonna do now. Gin said she’s finishing school.”

“I’m going back too, obviously,” answered Hermione, frizzly dark hair spread around her like a halo, a few stray curls swaying in the breeze; it half covered Ron’s side where she rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m thinking of going to fetch my parents around July, but finishing my schooling isn’t even a question for me.”

“We already knew that, miss, it’s not news,” teased Ron. She elbowed him when they laughed, trying to kick Harry’s shin. “I think I’ll help George in the shop,” he continued, more somber this time, “Books were never my thing, and I feel he’ll need it. The Wheezes were their thing, his and Fred’s; if it’s hurting for us, I can’t even imagine how it is for him.”

Harry hummed in assent. Severus glides nearby, steadier and surer than before, with Ginny swooping around him as fast as the broom allows; he could probably outrun her at top speed without getting winded. She looked right at home in the air, flaming hair whipping around her flushed face; her skill was evident in the way she steered the unresponsive ride to do her bidding. Her certainty about what she wanted was warranted, he thought, he only wished he could feel as sure about his own future as she felt about hers.

Severus’ good mood lasted throughout the rest of the day, even if he stayed silent most of the time. Harry had already settled in his bed when a timid knock startled him from a light doze, a dark head peeking inside.

“You said I could ask more questions,” said Severus from the door. Harry nodded, beckoning him inside. He stood by the side of the bed, shifting from one foot to another. “Why did they treat me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Nicely. They didn’t have to, but they did.”

Harry’s heart squeezed tight; he’d felt exactly the same the first time he stayed at the Burrow, like he mattered somehow. “They’re just like that," he answered, “And because you deserve it. Everyone deserves a little kindness.”

The boy frowned, as if the words made no sense, scratching the bedpost with his nail until flakes of varnish floated down to the carpet.

“Can I ask another question?”

“You don’t need to ask every time you have a question.”

Severus narrowed his eyes at him, suddenly shrewd. “Is Ginny your girlfriend?”

Flushing, Harry stared back at the expectant child pinning him down with a pointed look. “Yeah,” he answered, “Why?”

With a shrug, the boy simply answered, “I like her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This chapter is HUGE, but I'm happy with it so it's fine I guess. I finished outlining the rest of this fic so now I know where we're going, I expect it to make my life easier.
> 
> As a whole, we'll have 11 chapters and an epilogue. Thank you for all your comments, it's such a unique feeling reading them! If you wanna talk about this more in depth, or just talk, you can find me at [my tumblr](https://scverussnape.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

“Severus, we’re going to be late!”

Receiving no response other than a stream of thankfully unintelligible swearing half muffled through the door, Harry knocked again, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t come in!” hollered Severus, swearing a bit more.

“I wasn’t going to,” answered Harry. He tapped his feet, taking a peek at his old cracked wrist watch; they needed to leave now or they’d be late. “Are you sure you don’t want help with your buttons? There’s no shame in asking, y’know.”

“Got it!”

The boy opened the door and hurried back inside again, damp hair flapping wildly against his face. Freshly showered and neatly dressed—as neat as possible for a nine year old unassisted, that is—Severus certainly gave off a way better impression than the half starved, grubby faced boy Harry saw in the memories. The frequent and generous meals from the last days were also helping a fair deal.

“We should’ve gotten you another pair of shoes,” said Harry, wincing at the yellow trainers Severus was currently tying.

“I don’ need more than one pair,” frowned Severus, as if he’d just said something unconceivable. Finishing his last knot, he turned to his dresser. “Shoes are expensive,” he said with conviction while pulling on a dark blue sweater on top of his dress shirt.

“Money isn’t an issue, I told you already. It’s just that yellow trainers aren’t appropriate for every occasion.” Harry bit back a comment on Severus’ tendency on layering up more than necessary, the habit prickling at the back of his mind every time he noticed it. “Did you brush your hair?”

“Yeah, no tangles, see?”

“I see,” he said, running his fingers through it and cheering inside when Severus didn’t immediately pull away. A slightly uneven patch of skin caught his attention, right at the edge of his hairline behind one ear; another round scar, fainter than the one at his chest but distinctive under his fingertips all the same. He felt it only for a moment before the boy pulled away at last, but it still gave him a strange chill.

The last days brought changes not only to Severus' overall demeanor. Two reporters at their door became four, then eight, going over fifteen on one particular day; some of them apparently foreign. Funerals were steadily giving way to festivities, Remus and Tonks’ being among the last ones, and while Harry understood the want to celebrate the end of so much fear and suffering, he couldn’t help but feel it was too soon. He was nowhere near being done with his grieving yet; at least not enough to attend a party.

His absence from the celebrations became the talk of the week, the papers throwing one wild speculation after the other about his general state; Rita, as the good carrion bird she was, churned out an article full of the most heartfelt, disgustingly phony concern about his _fragile mental state after such horrifying ordeal_. It stung especially because for once she wasn’t too far off the mark; not that he’d mention any of it out loud to anyone.

Kingsley’s appointment as interim Minister and subsequent statement reassuring people he was healthy and hale, but deserved to have his privacy respected during these confusing times, seemed to have put a damper in the public’s curiosity, and for that Harry was grateful. The number of reporters at his door trickled down to a more manageable three most days now.

“You sure I can’t stay home this time?”

The question brought him back to the present, Severus looking up at him expectantly. “The answer won’t change just because you keep asking,” he sighed, climbing down the stairs with the boy pouting after him. “Kreacher’s getting better but he still didn’t understand why children shouldn’t mess with kitchen fires, so no babysitting until he gets that part.”

“Cos he’s right,” muttered Severus, “You can just heal burns with magic.”

“They still hurt like hell, and I don’t want you hurting. Trust me, I’m talking from experience; no matter how well you think you can work the fire, you’re still a child and you will get hurt.”

Severus narrowed his eyes at him. “How do you know?”

Memories of hot oil splashing against his arms, fat bacon popping out of the pan straight to his face, missing his eye only because of his glasses; the time he dropped a pot of boiling pasta all over his legs. Petunia had locked him in his cupboard still crying that time, the cooling fabric of trousers unbearable over his damaged skin. There was nothing there the next morning, like it never happened, and she’d berated him again for his _dramatics_.

“No time now, we gotta go,” he said, blinking away the memories. “Kreacher, we’re leaving!”

The elf grunted from the kitchens, still hurt at being deemed unsuited for child minding duties, and Harry sighed. They went out the front door just onto the first step, right under the limits of the Fidelius, and Apparated away.

The Burrow was slowly reverting to the busy and lively place he was used to, though Fred’s absence still left a gaping hole in the picture. They arrived just in time to see Percy disappearing through the fire, Ginny keeping company to a still somber Mrs Weasley while waiting for them. Severus seemed torn between greeting Gin and staying half behind Harry as he was at the sight of yet another new person, but he answered her hello with a small but earnest smile.

“Harry, dear, there you are,” said Mrs Weasley, with a tired smile, “We were just waiting for you.”

“This is Mrs Weasley, Severus.” He pulled the boy to his side, Severus mustering enough manners to give her a stiff nod in acknowledgment. “Sorry for the delay.”

“It’s fine, I know how hard it is to get the young ones ready in time,” she answered, “But he’s looking quite dapper, that’s for sure.”

A deep flush rose up Severus cheeks, followed by a small frown, the boy seemingly so confused by the compliment his words abandoned him. Harry poked him gently on the side and he stuttered a small “Thank you,” aimed at the general direction of his shoes. It seemed to satisfy Mrs Weasley enough, but after they watched Ginny twist away in a flash of green flames, she tutted at Severus pushing the hair the gust of smoke has pushed into his face.

“It’s a bit overlong, isn’t it dear? I could cut it for you in a pinch before we leave.”

“No!” exclaimed the boy, utterly horrified at the suggestion.

“It’d be just a few inches—”

But he wasn’t listening, pulling away from her and shaking his head. “Severus, it was just an idea,” said Harry, caught by surprise.

“Only my mam cuts my hair!” At his wail, a flower pot standing on the hearth shook ominously, and Harry understood.

“It’s ok,” he reassured, “No one will cut your hair, I promise. Severus,” he called again, finally catching his attention amid the distress, “I promise.”

It took him a long moment to unwind enough for them to leave, Harry standing awkwardly between a wary Severus and an afflicted Mrs Weasley. “I fucking hate the Floo,” muttered Severus as they stepped through the flames, the rush swallowing another bout of hair raising cursing. “Magical transports are bullshit,” he added while Harry cleaned them up, Mrs Weasley pressing her lips tight against the urge to say something.

“Yeah, yeah, now cut down the swearing a bit, will you?” muttered Harry, vanishing the ash out of his hair, “That's no language for company.”

For a long minute it looked like Severus wanted to stuck out his tongue at him, but then he just scowled and shrugged. Harry supposed both responses were very appropriate for a child, but the need to shake him persisted, barely restrained, while they made their way to the others. The funeral was emptier than Fred’s, the attendance mostly comprised of friends; off to one side he could see a few people that must be Ted’s muggle family, recognizable by the complete absence of robes or pointy hats.

Hermione threw them a cautious look when they join the rest of the Weasleys, fidgeting anxiously with a stray lock of her hair that insisted in falling over her face. “I still don’t think it’s wise to bring him here. Anyone could recognize him and then what would we do?”

“Relax, Mione,” says Ron, “I mean, it’s a bit morbid, but there aren’t many people alive who remember him as a child, and I _think_ they’re all on our side. He’s safe with us.”

They followed the current leading them to Andromeda and an older man he supposed was Remus’ father, with the same downturned eyes, waiting for their turn to offer their condolences. Severus stuck to his side the entire time, silent as a rock and uncomfortable, despite the glances he kept throwing at anyone visibly magical. When the Weasleys finished, Harry readied himself for the introduction, just to be interrupted by a gasp. _Shit_.

Andromeda remembered him.

“Mrs Tonks, Andromeda—” he hurried, beating himself up for not _thinking_. Andromeda looked at the boy with wide eyes, and Severus shrunk, undecided between cussing out or fleeing. Harry had to act. “Mione, can you take him away for a moment? Thanks—just go with her, please,” he said when the boy made to protest.

Dragging his feet, Severus retreated with Ron and Mione, throwing a betrayed look over his shoulder. Andromeda seemed to be slowly regaining her bearings while Harry fought the urge to pull at his hair a bit. “Lyall, I’ll be back in a second,” she said to the man watching them curiously, his only answer a nod; with that she gestured Harry to follow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even _think_ —” he sighed, throwing a hasty Muffliato around them. She just stood there, expectant, eyes growing more and more as he explained. After finishing, he bit his lip, a deep weight settling in his gut for disturbing her with his problems on such a day.

“That’s… quite a situation,” she finally said, “You seem to attract them like flies to honey.” He winced, and she fell silent again. Turning her head, he saw her searching with her gaze, finding the boy kicking at the grass beside Ginny. She watched them, mouth a tight line, before nodding to herself. “Your secret is safe. I need to go back now,” she said, already turning on her heel, “Oh, and you should speak with Lyall Lupin now, I think he wants you to be one of Remus’ pallbearers.”

“Andromeda,” he called, “I’m sorry.” For her loss yet again, for upsetting her; he didn’t even know exactly what he was apologizing for.

“I know.”

As it turns out, Lyall Lupin didn’t have many words for him, except for a thank you and his request; he knew what Harry meant to Remus, even if he’d never met him, but it didn’t mean he felt much compelled to change that, to form a connection. Harry accepted, and when the time came, he shared his burden with Arthur, and the Minister himself. The tears only started to fall once they lowered them, an unbearable knot pressing against his throat hard enough he could barely breathe. Ginny and Ron held him through it, Hermione clutching a wide eyed Severus close.

When his sight finally cleared, they were already at the wake, and, to his surprise, Severus was sitting quietly by his side, chewing on a snack and eyeing him carefully.

“Who was he to ya?”

The question was unexpected, giving him pause because he didn’t know. He didn’t know how to describe what Remus was to him. “He, he was my father’s friend,” he started, wiping his nose on his sleeve and feeling more like a child than even Severus himself, “And he was my friend. But he was also family, if that makes sense.”

The boy frowned, trying to make sense of it. “It don’t,” he answered, swinging his feet against the chair legs. As if repeating something drilled into him more than a few times, he muttered, “Family’s family. Friends ain’t.”

“That’s not true.”

Mione interrupted them, Severus frowning at him all the time while they joined the crowd again, before drifting close to Gin. Mrs Weasley, seeing an opening, pulled him aside.

“I’m sorry for upsetting the boy earlier. Arthur warned me to go slowly on him, but I never thought—”

“Mrs Weasley, it’s fine, I know you were only trying to help,” he interrupted her, pushing himself to try to comfort her. “I had no idea he’d react like that either…”

“You were very brave, taking him on like that.” He ducked his head, uncomfortable; he didn’t feel very brave right now. As if sensing it, she patted his cheek. “It’s true, even if you don’t feel like it at the moment. He reminds me of another boy I knew once, you know?”

“Does he?”

“Oh, yes. Curious but a little wary, so full of wonder for everything magic. A bit scrawny,” she added, with a sad smile, and Harry felt his face burn. He knew that boy too. “But what really stands out is that both of you look so surprised at a little gentleness. You didn’t have the sailor’s mouth, though.”

Harry was left to flail after that, until Andromeda thrust a bothered and fussy Teddy at him moments later, while he was trying to get something to occupy his hands with at the snacks table. He did occupy his hands alright, squirming and struggling, and changing colors like there was no tomorrow, but it was a comforting weight nevertheless. He buried his nose in the soft hair currently sporting a fluff of curls, inhaling deeply; it settled some of the disquiet inside of him.

“Can we go—what’s that?”

“Who, not what,” he answers. Severus watched the changeling baby with a frown, gasping when the hair went blue for a second. “This is Teddy. The funeral today was for his parents.”

“How did he do that? He’s just tiny.”

“He got it from his mum. Some wizards and witches are born like this, they can change their shapes at will,” he answered, smiling down at his godson, “Well, for now it just changes with his mood. He’s a very special boy.”

The furrow between Severus’ eyebrows deepened, and he followed Harry in silence, biting his lip. Just before they reached the Weasleys, he slowed, glaring at the baby in his arms. “So he’s your family, too?”

“Yeah,” answered Harry, puzzled by the sudden change. “He’s my godson.”

Severus’ eyes darkened at this, but even if he intended to reply, he wouldn’t have been able to. The Weasleys surrounded them, various faces cooing and beaming at Teddy; he, in turn, forgot all about his bad temper and graced everyone with gummy smiles and more flashes of colors at breakneck speed. Laughing at a particularly explosive giggle, Harry readjusted the shifting weight in his arms to look around for Severus. Over Mrs Weasley shoulder, he spotted him skulking away, face a painful mix of anger and dejection.

“I’m—yes, he keeps doing that, Mrs Weasley—actually, I think Andromeda wants him back, excuse me.”

He managed to extricate himself from them after some struggle, casting a harried look around but coming out empty of black hair and angry eyebrows. He found Andromeda though.

“I’m sorry, can you take him back again?”

“What happened?” she asked, accepting the laughing baby.

“Hm, Severus got upset for some reason,” he said, looking around again, “And now I can’t find him.”

“Yes, of course. And Harry,” she said as he was turning to leave, “Be patient with him.”

He didn’t recognize the emotion behind her advice, nor did he stop to consider it deeply, already hurrying away. When he finally found the boy, crouching behind a bush outside, he was ready to tear out his hair, or maybe throw himself on the damp grass in relief.

“Why did you leave like that?” he asked, exasperated. “I told you yesterday you needed to stay close to one of us all the time.” Severus just shrugged, hair hiding his face, and again Harry wanted to shake him. “I asked you a question, and I’d really like an answer. Why are you hiding?”

“Don’t wanna stay,” mumbled Severus, digging the soil with an insistent finger. He glanced up, scowling, before averting his eyes again. “Where’s the baby?”

“I gave him back to his grandmother, and it’s still too early to leave.” Harry frowned, trying to make sense of the boy’s behavior but coming up short. “Is this about Teddy?”

Severus shrugged again, pulling out a little pebble from under the grass. “He’s your family,” he said, so softly Harry barely understood, but with a distinctive trace of sneer he was terribly familiar with. And he hated it. “Very special.”

“I really, really don’t know what you’re on about,” answered Harry, rubbing his temples against the headache mounting behind them, “And to be honest, I can’t deal with it right now, so just get up and come back inside. Now, Severus,” he added, more forcefully than he truly meant to.

The boy stood, wary and stiff, following him inside without any more comments, and Harry kept telling himself it didn't bother him. He felt suffocated. With a sense of detachment, he let himself be roped into a conversation with McGonagall and Kingsley, his contributions barely more than a few hums at what he hoped were the right points. He zoned back into himself when Kingsley mentioned he should make a real public appearance sooner rather than later, if only to recoil at the suggestion.

“I know you must be feeling—actually, forget that, I have no idea how you might be feeling,” said Kingsley, and Harry felt petty at the voice inside his head scoffing at it. “But I _know_ nothing will be able to keep the press at bay for long. You’ve dealt with them before, you know how fickle the public opinion is, and because of that you know I’m right.”

“I know, I know,” said Harry, biting back his frustration, “I’ll have to think about it first, but I will keep it in mind. Oh, there was something else,” he added, when Kingsley made to leave, “I’m staying at Grimmauld Place, and transport to and from is being a hassle, specially with all the reporters. Is there any way to connect it to the Floo, but only to the Burrow?”

“I’ll see about it whenever I can.”

Harry thanked him, truthfully this time, before turning to McGonagall. “About, you know, any news?”

“We’ve found some options so far,” she answered, “Nothing certain, mind you, but promising all the same. I think we might be able to try a them out soon—”

“I do not care! Leave!”

Andromeda’s voice rose sharp and pained, cutting through the low hum of conversation like a well kept knife, followed closely by a baby’s wail. At once, all heads turned to the center of the commotion, and without another thought Harry abandoned the conversation, elbowing people left and right; he tried not to focus on the way his hand immediately found his wand, how his heart sped up, readying to fight. Pushing aside one more person, he saw the last thing he imagined to see today: Narcissa Malfoy.

When put side by side, or facing each other as they were now, the sisters didn’t look so different, physically speaking, but their overall appearance couldn’t be more different.Despite everything, Narcissa still held herself as if she were better than anyone else in the room; Andromeda, on the other hand, looked ready to come to blows, if only she weren’t holding her screaming grandson.

“I’m the only family you have left, Andromeda, can’t you see—”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare come here, after everything, everything, and say that. Not after cutting me out all those decades ago for loving someone _unworthy_ ,” she spat the word, like it’d been festering inside her for too long. Something poisonous. “Not after supporting Bellatrix while she _hunted_ my daughter for the same reason! I’ve lost my Ted, and Dora, and you’re just as guilty of it as the ones who cast the spells!”

Harry broke free of the stunned crowd, coming into the empty space around the sisters. Gently, he touched her arm, to let her know he was there. He could see Narcissa narrowing her eyes, calculating her next move, and the collective intake of breath when he positioned himself by Andromeda’s side, the crowd immediately thirst for action, for _gossip_. The hope of it not making first page tomorrow was null. Maybe it would even merit an extraordinary issue.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even, to keep the emotions bottled up inside him all morning from boiling over. “But I think Andromeda made her point clearly enough.”

“I _am_ her sister, I have a right—”

“I don’t care.” Narcissa snapped her mouth shut at the interruption, lips pressing into a thin line of displeasure. Before she could gather herself, he continued. “She just buried her daughter and her son-in-law. She couldn’t even bury her husband, because we still don’t know what was done with his body. If you had one sliver of respect, of decency, you’d know you shouldn’t be here. Not today.” He was panting, and judging by the hush around them he was now certain it would make headline, word by word even. “So please, do the right thing for once and leave,” he forced himself to say, to end it.

Narcissa looked at him, pale but outwardly composed as a painting, staring him down ( _Not down anymore though was it? He’d grown past her now,_ he couldn’t help but think) as if he were a mere annoyance. As if most of the people around them wouldn’t tear her to pieces if they had the chance to do so unpunished.

He could see the beads of sweat over her lips though, the flutter of her nostrils. She _was_ afraid.

“We helped you,” said Narcissa in the end, silkily; a queen granting him a magnanimous gift. He felt repulsed. “Me and my son, we helped you against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. You’re standing here today because of our assistance.”

“And many people are dead due to your husband’s assistance,” he spat, causing a collective gasp. He caught Hermione’s wide eyes, and she shook her head minutely. Breathing hard, he tried to get a hold on himself. “Besides, I imagine saving your son’s life twice over in the last battle alone more than paid for whatever debts I could have with your family. Now, I’ll repeat it. Leave.”

For a moment it seemed like she wanted to argue more, but one wide look around her made her see the situation couldn’t be less in her favour. She pressed her lips once again, and nodded; the last look she threw at her sister flickered with genuine emotion, a second and it was gone, and she turned on her heel to leave.

Just then, a small scuffle broke out among the crowd. Severus, ever curious, tried to get a closer look at the confusion, only to be restrained by Ginny; his attempt to bite her was easily brushed off, as she was much much more sly than Ron had ever been. It attracted Harry’s attention long enough for him to sigh, but then he noticed something else.

Narcissa was staring at the boy.

She’d stopped mid-stride, what little color she had leaving her face at the sight. Ginny pulled a struggling Severus closer to her chest, eyes searching Harry’s asking what to do now, but he didn’t know. He was frozen in place as Narcissa took one step towards the pair, opening and closing her mouth as if out of words. Severus, finally noticing her attention focused on him, shrunk against Ginny, suddenly wary; his black eyes going wide the last thing Harry saw before Mrs Weasley planted herself in front of them, cutting through Narcissa’s path.

“You heard Andromeda and Harry,” she said, more imposing than it should be possible when she barely reached Narcissa’s chin. Harry reminded himself that this was the woman who’d finally stopped Bellatrix, and apparently, her sister remembered it too. “It’s better you leave now.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Narcissa lowered her eyes to the boy peering from behind Mrs Weasley. There was recognition in her eyes when she looked back at Harry, mingled with the keen satisfaction of someone who just saw an opportunity, before she left without another word.

Harry didn’t have to look at Hermione’s panicked face to know they were _fucked_.

* * *

Somehow, someone managed to snatch pictures of the showdown at the funeral, and as predicted they made the first page. For the life of him Harry couldn’t tell how they managed to do it without being noticed, but that thought was secondary at best. His heart jumped to his throat while he scanned the paper, bypassing his own twisted face in search of something, anything that could have given Severus away.

Hermione had been beside herself after they left, and even Ron looked more than a little anxious. They still had no idea what to do with this secret, how safe it would be for the boy to have his real identity exposed. Saying Snape wasn’t a loved man was the understatement of the century; he’d been hated by one side for betraying Dumbledore, while the other wanted his skin for selling Voldemort out. Harry might have shouted his allegiances to the four winds at the battle, but they weren’t sure how that would figure into everything. In the end, they decided to wait.

His heart sunk back in place with relief when he reached the last page and the only sign of Severus on the whole paper was a peek of black hair behind Mrs Weasley in one of the photos, quickly moving out of sight and completely unidentifiable. There was some speculation about the mysterious child accompanying him and the Weasleys but for now Harry decided to ignore it. They’d deal with it when the time came.

The following days passed in a whirlwind of activity, both at Grimmauld place and the Burrow. It seemed like the end of the funerals brought forth an urgency to fix things, to tear down the remnants of Voldemort’s reign of terror as quickly as possible, in a desperate attempt at gaining back their lives.

Mr Weasley and Percy went back to the Ministry, most of the time with Hermione in tow; their knowledge of its inner workings, added with Mione’s superhuman abilities of research and attention to detail made them invaluable to the works of sorting through the mess left behind. Ron, as he’d already said, started helping George and Charlie at fixing the shop, and for all purposes he seemed content at it. Ginny hovered between helping them out and keeping an eye on her mum.

Harry just hovered.

He threw himself at the task of fully restoring Grimmauld Place; tearing out motheaten carpets and tapestries, knocking down moldy walls while strange pests scurried off became his new routine. With the books on house repairs Mrs Weasley thrust at him during one of his visits and Kreacher’s help, he thought things were going quite fine.

(If it kept his hands busy and his body tired enough he didn’t have to think much at nights, well, that was only a pleasant bonus to a livable house, right?)

His only current issue right now was Severus.

Ever since the funeral it seemed that the ease growing between them had withered and died, and for the life of him Harry couldn’t find a reason why. The boy went back to his silences and his flinching, to his sullen glares from under bushy eyebrows. Worst of all, he went back to doing things behind his back.

He’d purposely pick out dangerous books Harry had warned him against, he’d brew things in the dead of night. One memorable day he’d lit a fire in his room, burning half the curtains before Harry managed to put it down. The lectures made him feel increasingly stupid since they had no visible effect; he wasn’t even sure if Severus was listening to a word he’d said in any of them, watching him expectantly all the while. He had no idea what he was expecting.

Surprisingly, his behavior made Harry feel hurt. Not because he was acting out, putting himself in danger and pushing him away, but because he only did it with Harry. He watched him tailing Ginny around the Burrow, basking in her attention; striking a conversation unprompted with Mr Weasley, and slowly making peace with Mrs Weasley due to her splendid cooking. Even Kreacher seemed to be higher in the boy’s esteem than Harry nowadays, the pair thick as thieves while conspiring over self-cleaning dishes, and it _hurt_. And he didn’t even know exactly why.

After Bill finally found some time to rid them of Dumbledore’s spectre, it left them only the brothers’ rooms, the garden, and Mrs Black’s portrait to sort out. Again, Harry tried not to feel sidelined at the adoring looks Severus threw at Bill’s ponytail while he worked, and failed spectacularly.

“Do you want to help me with the last rooms?” he tried after Bill left, leaving them alone in the now curse-free corridor. “Kreacher told me they’ve been untouched for years, we might even find some of their old child things there still.”

As per his usual response these days, Severus just shrugged. Deciding to take it as an yes, he herded the boy upstairs, to Regulus’ old bedroom. It was clean now, Kreacher finally having been convinced that the dust needn’t be preserved along with the rest of the room, and it felt like its owner had just stepped out. The paper cutouts about Voldemort had been taken down however; Harry demanded it early on, and the old elf agreed without question. No reason to keep a shrine to the man who killed his beloved old master, after all.

They put in a box things that were still useful, like robes and books and shoes, or that had enough reason to be kept safe. In the second box went a bundle of photos, of a young Regulus laughing with friends at Hogwarts; Harry wondered how many of these were still alive.

Severus kept a Slytherin scarf, soft and worn, and a scratched snitch they found asleep in a box. It flew somewhat askew, and way slower than it should, but the boy looked at it as if it were priceless. Harry felt something unwind within himself when Severus forgot his sulk and shared a small grin to his side, even if lasted only a moment. His sorting through the drawers was interrupted by a soft gasp; he turned back to see the boy reverently touching a small velvet pouch he’d just pulled from under the bed.

“I never seen real gobstones,” whispered Severus, fishing a bright green marble from the bag, the amazement shining through his eyes.

“Your mum played in school, didn’t she?”

Severus turned to him in surprise. “How do you know?”

“I saw it in an old newspaper,” he shrugged, “She was a club—”

“Club president _and_ team captain, I know!” interrupted Severus, puffing up with pride and excitement that he knew about his mum’s talents. “She was really amazing, coulda played for the national team if, hm.” He bit his lip, cradling the pouch between his hands. “If she didn’t marry my father...”

Harry scooted closer to where the boy sat, extending his hand in a silent request. Severus hesitated for a second before passing him the dusty little bag. The glass beads inside were clearly fancy, the colors more vivid and varied than the ones he’d seen other children playing with at school. Gobstones had a lousy reputation though, of being too dull or too dumb, so even those who enjoyed it dropped the interest pretty soon. He remembered the sullen looking girl, seeing her reflection in the heavy eyebrows scrunched on Severus’ face.

“Do you know how to play?”

Severus nodded, regaining a bit of enthusiasm. “She taught me all the variants, but I like the snake pit better,” he said, leaning over Harry. “We had to use muggle marbles though, she didn’t have her magic ones no more.”

“You must’ve been the terror of the neighborhood then,” said Harry, giving back the gobstones. Severus frowned in confusion. “At marbles,” he clarified, “You must’ve been good at it, since it’s very similar to gobstones, and I bet you’re really good at it, being taught by your mum.”

“Oh,” he said. Fiddling with the drawstring, he looked around the room, before adding, “The other kids didn’t like me much.”

Harry’s chest tightened, Mrs Weasley’s words coming back to him. Being the strange child the others avoided was something he understood more than a little too well, and he didn’t like to imagine the boy in front of him going through the same thing.

“Do you wanna play?” blurted Harry, eager to offer some kind of comfort, and once again Severus was caught by surprise.

“But we didn’t even finish!”

“We can finish another time, there’s no hurry,” he answered, stretching his back when he stood. He picked up the box of keepsakes, already making his way to the door. “I’m not very good though, so you might have to teach me.”

“But,” Severus started, words dying out as he followed Harry downstairs still holding the pouch and the snitch, Slytherin scarf flapping after him. He seemed to be searching for what to say, for an argument why his offer didn’t make sense; in the end the best he could come up was with a muttered “But it’s child stuff.”

“Would your mum say it’s just child stuff?” The boy shook his head, flushed at his mistake. He stood in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot while Harry left the box with Kreacher, disbelief written all over his little face.

“Do you really want to play? With me?” he asked in a soft whisper.

“I do,” answered Harry, trying to convey his sincerity through those two simple words. The hand he placed on Severus back wasn’t shaken off this time.

“In the garden?”

“In the garden,” he confirmed.”

* * *

“Master Harry.”

“Aurgh, not again!”

Severus laughter rang through the yard, scaring off a few aggravated doxies. They’d been at it for hours, and Harry was _drenched_.

He’d imagined the boy would be good. He never imagined he’d be _this_ good.

It was on him, honestly.

“This is like stealing candy from a baby, you’re so bad!” Severus piped, striking yet another point while Harry took _another_ squirt of stinky goop to the face.

“I give up! I give up—oh, hey Kreacher,” he answered, recognizing the elf’s vague shape through the mess coating his glasses. Gobstones was tougher than it looked like, that was for sure.“What is it?”

“The Minister of Magic is here to see you,” said Kreacher, sounding thoroughly unimpressed by the ordeal.

“Kingsley? Did you invite him in?”

“I took the liberty of seeing myself in through your Floo. It’s connected to the Burrow, as you asked,” said an amused voice behind him.

“Kreacher, you might have mentioned—oh, nevermind,” he cut off at the elf’s disappearing pop. Fighting the blush crawling up his cheeks, Harry stood, throwing his guest an apologetic smile. “One second, lemme just get my wand and vanish this mes—”

“I can do it!” jumped Severus, already pulling his own from his pocket, before he remembered the company. Harry watched as his eyes grew as big as the marbles scattered at their feet, and the flush he just contained in himself taking over the boy’s face with a rage. “I mean,” he stammered, half-hiding his wand behind his back, just to close his mouth and drop his head to stare at his bare feet.

Kingsley glanced at Harry, who just shrugged. He didn’t seem surprised to see Severus, so he could only imagine McGonagall had brought him up to date with what happened. “I think,” said the Minister, clearing his throat, “If I look at that fountain over there for a moment, I won’t see any improper use of underage magic that might be happening.” The boy frowned at him questioningly, and he simply raised one eyebrow. “What the eyes can’t see and all that, right?”

Severus gaped while Kingsley very pointedly turned his back on them. It took him a few moments to pick his wand again and point it at Harry.

“Evanesco?”

“No, you might vanish more than just the goop,” answered Harry. “Tergeo, I think. Concentrate.”

With a swish of his arm and a muttered incantation, Harry felt the sticky substance disappearing, leaving behind just a clammy feel and a faint stink. Severus smiled at his approving nod.

“Minerva didn’t exaggerate when she said you were a smart child.” They turned to Kingsley at the same time, to see him flashing a soft grin at the boy. Severus fidgeted with his wand, drawing a little closer to Harry, but with no fear in his eyes; if anything he seemed baffled by the praise. “It’s Severus, right? Well done, that’s not a simple spell.” Turning his attention to Harry, he continued. “Do you have time to talk now?”

They end up having a spot of tea in the garden, after he sent Severus off to have a shower. Discussing the current state of things felt strange for Harry, and Kingsley finally put his own thoughts to words better than he could so far.

“It’s too quiet,” he said thoughtfully. “I thought things would be more chaotic now, given how they were before but… nothing. It’s paperwork after paperwork, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. We don’t know where are all the Death Eaters who escaped, we don’t know their intentions, but they’ve kept quiet so far.” Raising an eyebrow, he inclined his head towards Harry. “Too quiet.”

“And it feels like we’re all just holding our breaths,” agreed Harry. “Doesn’t feel right just moving on while one of the Lestranges of all people are still around.”

“He’s the one we’ve been keeping an eye out for the most, specially with the stunt at Gringotts.”

“Bill told me about it.”

“I can’t help but notice you haven’t reinforced your Fidelius yet,” Kingsley said, “Since I’ve been able to just come in. I’m still a Keeper.” Harry nodded. “You need to see to it as soon as you can. We don’t know if Rodolphus was brought in when you lost it, but you can’t leave it to chance.”

“I will, I will. I just haven’t had the time yet,” Harry winced, before narrowing his eyes. “But you didn’t come here just to berate me on my security.”

Kingsley smiled. “No, I didn’t. It’s about the trials.” At Harry’s confusion, he added. “You will be called for a few of them, invariably. Lucius already mentioned that intention more than a few times, and I’m sure there will be others. There’s a mounting case against the younger Malfoy as well.”

“I just wish I could have one week without any Malfoys,” muttered Harry, scrubbing his eyes. “The press will fall on these trials like waves…”

“And that’s why you should deal with them before it happens,” said Kingsley, more firmly, and Harry definitely felt scolded now. “On your own terms.”

The talk dwindled after that, and before long Kingsley saw himself off through the newly connected Floo. Severus, who’d just stepped in the room, frowned at his retreating back inside the green flames.

“Why are you friends with the Minister of Magic?” he asked.

“Just this Minister. The previous two didn’t like me much,” Harry snorted, running his hand through his hair; it felt way too sticky for his taste. He turned to Severus to announce he was going to shower now, just to see him staring back, and he noticed he hadn’t answered his question. “Remember what I told you about the dark wizard and the war?” He nodded. “Well, I _am_ famous since he went after me the first time when I was a baby and couldn’t kill me. The Boy who Lived, it’s what they call me since then. The Ministry always loved to poke their hands in my life because of that.”

“Why couldn’t he kill a baby?” Severus frowned. “Are you that powerful?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” answered Harry, struggling to think of a way to explain. “Have you ever heard anything about the Unforgivable Curses?” Severus shook his head. “There’s three of them: one causes terrible pain, other makes you into a puppet for the caster, while the third kills on the spot. There’s no shield against them, and no one had ever survived a Killing Curse before.” _Much less twice_ , he thought.

“The thing is, when he went after us, he gave my mum the choice of stepping back and letting him have me,” he continued, despite the paleness in Severus face. It was better to just take it out of the way already. “She refused, and he killed her for it, but when my turn came, the curse rebounded and he became less than a ghost, while I was left with this.” He pushed his hair up, revealing the scar across his forehead. “All because of the power he didn’t know of.”

“What power?” asked Severus, hushed and small.

“Love,” he answered, simply. Passing an arm over the boy’s shoulders, he pulled him to his side and he let it happen. “Her love protected me against the curse that should have no protection, and I became famous for it.”

He waited while Severus turned the new informations on his head, steering him towards the kitchen. At the doorway, the boy stopped, chewing his lip.

“That’s…” and the words failed him.

“A lot?” Harry offered. The boy nodded, frowning. “I know. You can ask me more about it later, if you want. Can you stay with Kreacher while I shower? We’ll have dinner afterwards.” He nodded again, and disappeared in the kitchen.

Halfway through his shower, while Harry was still wrestling with the mess stuck in his hair that had evaded Severus’ spell, frantic pouding at the door almost made him slip and crack his head open in the floor.

“Ginny’s here!” shouted Severus through the door, the eagerness echoing through it loud and clear.

“What?” exclaimed Harry through a sliver, when he finally managed to wrap himself in a towel and shuffle to the door, dripping water and suds all over the bathroom floor.

“She said she’s here for dinner, get a shift on!” Severus shouted, already bounding away. At the end of the corridor, he stopped, throwing a shrewd glance over his shoulder. “Your hair’s really ballsed up,” he said before skipping away, leaving behind a sputtering Harry.

He rinsed and dried himself in record time. Risking a peek at the mirror, balanced on one foot while trying to put on his trousers, Harry had to agree with Severus; his hair looked even more of a mess than before, overlong and knotted. Maybe he should accept Mrs Weasley’s offering and have it cut a bit, the scruffy beard was doing enough for the unkempt look without the help of his rioting hair he had no patience for. He bounded down the stairs almost as fast as Severus, slipping a bit on the carpet of the landing, entering the living room out of breath.

“There’s no fire here, you know?” teased Ginny, as he finished pulling on his shirt. Severus scowled at him, apparently for interrupting their talk.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he breathed, bending down to kiss her.

“And I didn’t know I needed to schedule a meeting with my boyfriend, but I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, giggling when he poked at her. “Severus informed me you’re having—what is it you called it?”

“Cock al veen?” he mumbled, red as a beet, “Kreacher said I’m saying it wrong, it’s somethin’ french.”

“I have no idea what that is, but if it’s Kreacher’s cooking then it’s good,” said Harry, swallowing back the laughter bubbling up, scooting closer to Ginny. One hand sneaked around her waist, and she smiled.

“Why don’t you go tell him we’ll be going down in a few minutes and wait there with him a bit?” she suggested, and Severus narrowed his eyes at them.

“You just want me gone so you can snog, ain’t it?”

“Maybe so.”

He huffed, collecting his slow moving snitch and a pile of books, and stomped away, making a show of closing the door, the dramatic thing. Harry felt himself relax against Ginny, content at having her here, at having Severus talking to him again; a hand on his jaw pulled him closer and the kiss was unhurried, slow and deep.

“I was thinking, I mean, if you have the _space_ ,” said Gin, breathless against his face when they finally stopped, “I’d rather like staying the night.”

Harry pulled his head back to look at her, half sprawled on the sofa as they ended up, noticing the sly glint in her eyes. “Somehow I don’t think Mrs Weasley approves this,” he said, but the warm feeling on his belly already doing jumps of contentment.

“Obviously not. Officially, I’m staying the night with Luna—who’s up to date on the plans and ready to help out if needed—and will be back after breakfast.” She winked at him, sitting up and pushing her hair back into place. “She doesn’t need to know more than necessary. C’mon, we’ve left Severus waiting long enough I think.”

Severus threw them a dirty look over his book when they entered the dining room, swinging his feet against the chair, but thankfully said nothing of their flushed faces. Dinner was served, and it ended up being some kind of chicken, delicious as everything Kreacher did. The talk was animated, bringing with it a sense of normalcy that left Harry feeling sated in a way that had nothing to do with the food. The three of them like this, it felt like…

Sighing, he stopped himself before he went too far, and as Severus told Ginny about Kingsley’s visit (giving a lot of emphasis on his _perfectly_ executed Tergeo that the Minister had complimented him for), Harry jumped back in, complaining about having to deal with the press.

“Well, you can always ask Luna for help,” pipped Ginny. “The Quibbler hasn’t started back up yet, but I imagine it would be the perfect first issue. _The Boy who Lived Twice opens up about the war, and what comes next_ ,” she said, in a narrator voice, “It would sell like water.”

“That’s better than going to the Prophet, and I admit I forgot about that option,” he snorted. “Thanks, I’ll talk with her one of these days.”

But he hadn’t really forgotten. He had been pushing it back because he felt conflicted about dealing with Xenophilius after the betrayal, and he told Ginny so when they were finally alone in his room later. He understanding his motives didn’t mean he had to feel comfortable around the man just yet, specially when it seemed like Luna didn’t know about it. He remembered the paintings, the love that had been put into them; he knew it would hurt her to know what her father had done.

“Then don’t tell her,” said Ginny, munching on one last piece of cake she brought with her from the kitchen. “Give him the chance to explain it himself, to deal with it between themselves. He’s all the family she has left, and she’s our friend; our feelings for him come second to our feelings for her.”

Much later, while they laid half over each other, a sliver of a thought drifted up Harry’s semi asleep mind, and jolted him back to consciousness.

“Gin, are you awake?”

“I am now,” she mumbled, burrowing further against his neck.

“D’you know if magic children can get muggle diseases like chickenpox?”

She raised her head, frowning at him. “I’m not sure, but I think they don’t. We have dragonpox but you only get that one if you live with other magical people. Why?”

He thought about the round scars he’d already seen littered on Severus’ skin, about his only life in the cupboard under the stairs. He buried the shudder on her shoulder, inhaling her comforting smell. “Nothing,” he said, “Just a thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a new chapter! I got so lost in the madness about The Old Guard I could barely think of anything else the whole month, but it's finally here. Another funeral, but at least this is the last one.
> 
> EDIT: Now with [this LOVELY art](https://mouseinthecastle.tumblr.com/post/626494939218477056/fanart-for-the-fic-little-and-broken-but-stil) by [mouseinthecastle](https://mouseinthecastle.tumblr.com/)! Harry and Severus with his yellow trainers!


	6. Chapter 6

In the state he was, eyes still half stuck as he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, it took Harry more than a long moment to place the loud noise reverberating through the house. His first thought was that Kreacher must have dropped a few dozen pans down the kitchen stairs, such was the racket, but promptly dismissed the idea as ridiculous. It was only when Walburga’s portrait started screaming her vile head off that he realized the noise didn’t come from the lower floor but from the front door.

Their still supposedly Fidelius protected front door.

The windows offered no answer other than the usual view of a placid Wednesday early morning, and he swore at the Blacks’ idiotic architectural choices: what was the point of so many glass panels and curtains if you couldn’t even see who was on your own front step? Heart beating fast, he watched as his Homenum Revelio showed only one person behind the thick wooden door and, as far as his other charms pointed, they had no malicious intentions. The knob felt cold under his palm, electrified; tightening the hold on his wand, he yanked the door open—

Narcissa Malfoy stared back at him, framed in pinks and soft blues reflected over the trees on the other side of the street, perfectly composed, and thoroughly unimpressed.

“How are you able to see the house?” he growled before she could say anything, keenly aware of how disheveled he looked with his glasses askew and pyjama pants torn at the knee, feet bare on the night cold stone. It made him even angrier. “The Fidelius is supposed to still be here, and unless—”

“Unless indeed, Mr Potter,” she answered, silky and polite. “After your stunt at the Ministry, my dear sister Bella decided she wanted to see the house again, and of course she invited me along. It was only proper of me to accept it. Now, may I come in?” Throwing a careful glance over her shoulder, she continued in a conspiratorial tone. “I thought it would be courteous to come early, to avoid the press you seem so keen on evading. I don’t mind waiting for the Prophet’s photographer to arrive though; my house elves informed me he’s here every morning at seven-thirty on the clock.”

Biting his tongue, Harry looked over her shoulder as he ushered her in. He so wanted to throw her out, to shout at her from his front door and slam it in her face; if only he thought it would stop her from trying again. Walburga Black screamed at them as they passed, using a few colorful choice words for _purebloods who lowered themselves to socializing with mudbloods_. Narcissa showed no reaction at the Stunning spell he threw at the portrait, but he noticed her eyes darting around, studying the changes they’d made over the last weeks: lighter colors on the walls, no more heavy velvet drapes or ancient bloody tapestries. It tasted of victory when a small frown passed through her artfully symmetrical brows.

“How is Lucius?” asked Harry, crossing his arms over his chest. “Last time he went to Azkaban he came out more than a little worn out. His hairline definitely suffered.”

Narcissa pressed her lips in a tight smile, knowing, seeing right through his attempt at pettiness. “He’s well, thank you for asking,” she said. “Our lawyers assure us that with his willingness to cooperate with the rebuilding efforts his prospects are fairly good. We are nothing but eager to help our community in healing the wounds left by the war.”

“Wounds _you_ dealt, and with pleasure, up until the point it started to hurt you too,” he snapped, her composure grating on his nerves. He wanted to rattle her, to make her wear her discomfort like he did, for everyone to see. “But I guess that your money will be your balm of choice, or will you insist on arguing Imperius this time again?”

Whatever answer he saw glinting in her eyes was interrupted by a loud pop. Kreacher bowed low enough to touch the floor with his ears, exactly the way Harry told him not to do. Exactly like Dobby used to do, no doubt taught by the woman currently sitting placidly on his new, comfortable couch.

“Is Mr Harry wanting any refreshments for the guest? Tea?”

“No.” Kreacher raised his head to stare hard at him, a protest ready. “She’s not a guest, and this is not a social call. You can go on about your day as always.”

Kreacher eyed him again, mutinous, but thankfully didn’t bow before leaving, casting a careful glance toward Narcissa; she made no mention of noticing him. Harry seethed silently at her, while the elf closed the door, rearing up for whatever confrontation she came for, but Kreacher’s testy voice echoing from the corridor interrupted him.

“Does the little professor want breakfast or would he rather stay eavesdropping as he is now?”

Severus’ angry mutter of “Kreacher!” was followed by the elf popping away, just as Harry pulled the door open. The boy was crouching a few steps down the landing halfway up to the first floor, scowling down at where the elf probably had been a second ago.

“Go to your bedroom now, and stay there until I call you back.”

“But I just wanted—”

“No,” he interrupted, and the scowl deepened even more. “Go.”

Throwing one last curious look at the room behind him, Severus slunk back to his room like a little thundercloud, and Harry knew he would pay for this later. Closing the door again, he cast a strong Muffliato around them, though he didn’t think the boy would try again so soon after being found out. In any case, there was always Kreacher to consider.

“I see the muggles didn’t raise you for polite company,” Narcissa said airily, “But again, that would be expecting too much, I imagine.”

“I’m not in polite company, as I told Kreacher. Now cut the bullshit and say what you came to say.” Her nose wrinkled at his poor manners, and all he could think of was _good_. “If this is about Lucius’ trial, forget it; I’d rather drop dead again than help him in any way.”

“I came to talk about Severus.” Harry ground his teeth against the urge to tell her it was none of her business, choking back on the _very_ impolite words. “The last we heard of him was the news of his death at the Dark Lord’s hands, as you announced loud and clear in the middle of the Great Hall. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him, not only alive but a child again at my niece’s funeral.”

He stared at the woman in front of him but she gave nothing back, face an empty, pleasant mask. Her eyes, on the other hand, were far from empty: the same curiosity he saw in Severus’s beetle black eyes were reflected on her sky blue ones, fresh and squirming. The difference was he couldn’t simply send her away and deal with it later without severe consequences; the Prophet’s photographer, at this time, would be already at his door, and Narcissa was a much more dangerous opponent than a nine year old. A careful approach was necessary.

“Why does it matter to you? If he lived or died, and how, won’t affect you in the slightest.”

The corner of her lip twitched down a fraction, and she averted her eyes to the bookshelves. “I… owe him,” she said softly. “My son’s life, my own. You see Mr Potter, he swore—”

“An Unbreakable Vow, I know. He didn’t do it for you,” said Harry, and she turned back to him, confused. “He did it on Dumbledore’s urging, to spare Draco’s soul.”

Narcissa pressed her lips, mulling the new information over. “Be that as it may, it was still Severus’ hand that pulled the threat of the Dark Lord’s anger away from us,” she answered. “Not his displeasure, but it granted us a chance we would not have had without his intervention. We, the Malfoys, owe him a debt, and I’d like to pay it.”

It pained him, that he couldn’t see ill intent in her eyes, any sign of plotting so characteristic of the Malfoys. Oh, there was some calculation involved, the opportunity of once again helping the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice and his own, but besides that? Nothing. He could hear Ron’s voice in his head, berating him for even considering it, and Hermione’s too, pleading with him to use his head for once and think things through. His gut, fickle thing that it was, had other ideas.

He was already talking before he even realised, and he could only hope, as he finished, that it wouldn’t come back later to bite him in the arse.

At least it left Narcissa out of words for a few moments.

“This is… very strange, even by our standards, ” she said at last. _Strange is an understatement_ , he thought wryly, watching her running her fingers over the pattern of her gloves. Why the hell was she using gloves in May? “What did you choose as your course of action?”

“Professor McGonagall is researching it, with the help of a few others,” answered Harry, “We’re to try a few of their findings any day.”

“Our library is at your disposal, if you need it. I’m certain it contains a few… special volumes unavailable at Hogwarts.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Dark Arts books, you mean.” Narcissa only smiled thinly, and said nothing. “Even if they _had_ an answer, I don’t imagine the price would be one easily paid, so I’ll pass on that. I think we all had enough of Dark Arts for a lifetime after Voldemort, don’t you agree?”

She flinched at the name, unable to hide her reaction. “Still, I would like to know how we can help.”

“By staying shut and out of our way, that’s how you’ll help. No, this is it,” he interrupted her protest, sharp and decisive. “You won’t talk about this with anyone, and you’ll leave us alone. We’ll take care of him properly, for as long as it takes, and you pay your debt by keeping your nose out of it. With that settled, I’d like to have my breakfast in peace.” Harry stood, extending his arm towards the door in a clear dismissal, and he could _see_ how it rankled her. With a little huff, she rose, taking her time to straighten her skirt.

He followed her through the corridor, opening the door wide to the now busier street; under a shoddy Disillusion Charm, he could discern the Prophet’s photographer in his usual spot, and one other unlucky sod, still on watch. Narcissa took one step out, following his gaze to the half-hidden wizards, before turning to him again.

“You might have noticed already,” she said, voice suddenly earnest, “But you’ll need a firm hand when dealing with Severus; Merlin knows how long it took Lucius to instill some sort of civilized behavior in his savage little head.”

“Excuse me?” choked Harry.

“Oh, he had no manners at all,” she continued, mistaking his perplexed words as encouragement. “He would blabber about one thing or another for hours if you’d let him, speaking out of turn. The worst was his habit of showing all of his horrible teeth when smiling; if he couldn’t fix them, there was no need to inflict them on anyon—”

“Out! Now!” he shouted, barely restraining himself from shoving her on the street, “Take your fucking nasty parenting advice you with, and don’t you _dare_ come anywhere close to him again!”

The slammed door missed her face for centimeters, and the last thing he saw was absolute shock at his sudden outburst, making him regret not catching her nose on the shove. _A bloodied nose would be too little_ , he thought, shaking with pent up fury. _How dare she, how dare—_

Kicking the door while barefoot was entirely unhelpful, except for changing his focus from anger to pain in a single second. Throwing himself on the floor, he hissed at his throbbing toe; it was barely eight in the morning and his head was already pounding. As if on cue, Mrs Black’s portrait started screaming again, his spell wearing off right on _fucking_ time. He took off his glasses, rubbing the sting in his eyes. A floorboard squeaked down the corridor and Harry sighed.

“I thought I told you to stay in your room.”

“I was hungry,” answered Severus, peeking from the doorway to the kitchen, “And you were shouting.”

“Yeah...” Walburga Black still screamed bloody murder.

Harry raised his head to the boy, noticing how mellow he looked in soft flannel pyjamas, rosy-cheeked and healthy, even with the meddling glint in his eyes. Narcissa’s words played again in his mind, and he imagined this same boy being told to shut up and stop smiling for other people’s conveniences in just a few years. It made his stomach revolt.

“So,” he said, putting his best efforts into sounding cheerful, “What do you say we go find some paint thinner after breakfast?”

* * *

“That missus from this morning was the same from the funeral, right?”

Harry fixed his sweaty grip on the plastic shopping bags, considering his options while Severus skipped beside him; instead of just walking, he kept trying to jump from tile to tile without hitting any lines, and sweat was already darkening the back of his ever-present long-sleeved shirt. He seemed to be having fun though, and that thought alone was enough to put Harry in a better mood. He readjusted his grip again.

“The very same,” he answered.

Severus jumped a few steps ahead of him, swearing loudly when his aim missed the spot. “Who is she?” he asked, shaking off the hair stuck to his eyes so he could look at Harry.

“That is Narcissa Malfoy—”

“Malfoy?” squeaked Severus, freezing in place, “She a Malfoy? You bang the door in a Malfoy’s face?”

“I did much more than that to Malfoys, if you wanna know,” grumbled Harry, good mood going down the drain yet again. He turned to the boy still rooted to the spot, looking at him with undisguised shock. “How do you even know about them?”

“Mam told me, ‘long with the Blacks,” he answered, frowning at him, “She said they’re really rich, important people, and you don’t cross them.”

He waited while Severus fell into step with him. “They’re a bunch arse-kissing, self-indulgent pricks.” The boy narrowed his eyes at him. “Do not repeat that near Mrs Weasley or Hermione.”

“Hermione says you’re a hypocretin,” mumbled Severus.

“It’s hypocrite, and she’s right, you should always listen to her.”

They walked in silence long enough Harry started to hope he wouldn’t have to disclose more than that, but Severus was never one to disappoint. Again, _smart little bugger_ , he thought, practically seeing the gears turning under his black hair. Three blocks before Grimmauld Place, he pounced.

“Did she know me from before? The Malfoy missus?” he asked, voice filled with almost credible nonchalance, if only he hadn’t been chewing his nails just half a minute before. He turned his black eyes to Harry. “At the funeral, she got spooked when she saw me, like I was a ghost or somethin’. She knew me, didn’t she?”

Harry sighed. “She did,” he answered, “From school, so she remembers you young.”

Severus mulled the answer over the next block, silent under Harry’s shadow. “Were we friends?”

Once they reached the last intersection, Harry stopped to pull the Cloak from his pocket. It had been a hassle to avoid the reporters, but he preferred it to the alternative; the Cloak made everything easier, given that Severus was small enough to barely make any bulk when tucked under his arm, and he’d rather walk free for a few minutes than just Apparate even when going to the corner shop.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said, beckoning the boy closer and covering them both with the familiar fabric so they could make it to the house.

To his ever-present surprise, the paint thinner _did_ work. The only downside was that it was horrifying to see.

Severus stayed off to one side while awkwardly patting Kreacher’s back, alternating between staring at the fat tears dripping down the wrinkled face and Harry’s preparations; Walburga’s stream of insults and complaints served as background noise, easily ignored at this point. The first stroke of the soaked roller made her pause, confused, and they all held their breaths. The paint bubbled, peeling off, and she _shrieked_ —ear-shattering, banshee-like—making them all jump a good foot off the ground. Eyes as big as saucers, Severus slowly covered Kreacher’s ears with his hands, and Harry scrambled for his wand while the elf hiccuped convulsively against the boy, abruptly vanishing the noise with a hasty Silencio.

After it was finished and they managed to send Kreacher off to rest amid tears and snot, they worked on cleaning up the clumps of stripped paint coating the floor, or stubbornly stuck to the frame. With a huff, Severus gave up on Vanishing a little pile he collected after it doubled in size instead of fading away.

“She must’ve really hated mudbloods with how much she kept swearing at them,” he muttered, barely audible, and it still made him go cold all over.

“Do not use that word!” hissed Harry.

His tone startled Severus. “Why?” he asked, peering up at him from where he was crouched, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just a wor—”

“No, it isn’t.” Severus flinched minutely when he dropped to the floor beside him, but Harry held him by his sleeve. “People who use it, people like _her_ , do so to say muggle-borns are less, that they’re dirty or unworthy because of their families. Is that what you think, that Hermione or Lily are less just because their parents didn’t have magic?”

“It ain’t like that, it’s just,” the boy said almost in a whine, tripping over his words, “Mam uses it sometimes, it don’t mean nothing.”

“It does. Severus, look at me,” he called, moving his grip to his shoulder. Slowly, the black eyes turned to him again, full of suspicion, and Harry forced himself to calm down. It scared him, both the possibility of Severus making the same mistakes again despite everything, and the fact that he cared this much; he didn’t even know how long he would have the boy with him. The last thought made something ache under his ribs. “Do you think they’re less?”

Severus shook his head once, twice.

“Then don’t use that word, ever. Do you understand me?”

Hesitation, lip pulled between teeth. Harry tightened the grip on the bony shoulder, thumb fitting over a sharp collarbone. Severus nodded.

“Good, that’s good,” he sighed, giving in to the impulse of stroking the boy’s hair before standing up. “Let’s finish cleaning this mess and then we can work in the garden a bit, alright?”

Severus nodded again, going back to picking up the pieces stuck in the carpet after a moment. Every once in awhile, Harry felt a shy glance in his direction, furtive; when he turned to the boy he was focused on his work again.

* * *

Their little routine, consisting mostly of repairing the old house and wasting time at the Weasley’s, came to an end shortly after that day, once Harry finally gathered enough courage to give the blasted interview. Luna was nice as always, in her own way, but as much as he was happy to see her thriving, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling in the bottom of his stomach when faced with Xenophilius Lovegood again. The man avoided his eyes, and Harry returned him the courtesy, so the rest of the afternoon went on without a hitch. He found out that, once he started talking, the words wouldn’t stop pouring, falling out of his mouth in a torrent, a flood, and afterwards he felt lighter than he had in months.

As expected, it caused a swell in the number of reporters camping in front of his house yet again, but this time he wasn’t the only one. Every person he mentioned, who had helped somehow along the way, received similar treatment—poor Neville could barely show his face anymore—and thus the attention was divided.

One effect he didn’t like was the renewed interest in Severus Snape.

He couldn’t help himself—so engrossed in his tale that he failed to notice Hermione glaring daggers at him over the reporter’s shoulder—and the words he shouted at Voldemort, that had found his way into the media in bits and pieces over the last weeks, were now printed and sourced back directly at him. His copy of the Prophet three days later met its end at the kitchen fire after reading about Rita Skeeter’s intention of publishing biographies of him and Snape in record time, _filled with all the sordid details_ the paper said. Mentions of the upcoming trials, as well as of the hunt for the missing Death Eaters were relegated to the last pages, after classifieds and crosswords.

Professor McGonagall made contact in the following week, and after apologizing profusely, invited them over to Hogwarts so they could try out a few of the most promising hypotheses. The first attempt, an archaic Revealing Spell found in a book so fragile it couldn’t be touched, was brought in by Flitwick with a flourish and much eagerness, the mood dying down when it no effect whatsoever when cast over an expectant Severus, the showy and complex incantation falling flat between them in the rich carpet of the Headmaster’s office.

The second attempt? An obscure variant of Priori Incantatem, cast on the infamous bracelet. _Useless._ And so were the third, and the fourth attempt.

With each failed try, Severus’ anxiety grew. He closed himself off again, ignoring all of Harry’s efforts at cheering him up. More than once, in the dead of nights following their visits to Hogwarts, if he pressed his ear against the boy’s bedroom door he could hear soft sniffs, choked sobs muffled by a pillow; the next morning he would be greeted by an ashen face, red-rimmed eyes. It broke his heart.

He wanted to put an end to it, to tell them to stop, even before the fifth attempt. He should have done it, followed the instincts that always served him so well. He’d been a fool.

His foolishness was the reason Severus passed out on the floor a second after drinking a modified Ageing Potion, blue-lipped and unresponsive. He’d allowed it to move on after seeing the boy’s face at the possibility his own first idea might have been right all along. He had been so excited.

Madame Pomfrey wasted no time, pushing a bezoar down his throat while Slughorn stood uselessly—just like with Ron—by their side, floundering and useless. Harry counted the seconds ticking by while the matron worked, his heart seizing when three whole minutes passed between the fall and a wheezing gasp of breath, followed by a whimper. His skin felt cold under his hands when he moved him to a couch. He couldn’t allow this, he couldn’t—

“This has to stop,” he said, and he barely recognized his own voice. His fingers shook when he pushed the now sweat-damp hair out of the boy’s flickering eyes.

(It had been soft before they came. He’d washed it just this morning with the mint-scented shampoo he’d taken a liking to.)

“It’s hurting him more than helping,” he continued, turning to face a stricken Minerva, “And I won’t allow it to go on like this. It’s enough.”

The professor pressed her lips in a thin line, moving her gaze from Severus to him. “I understand and…” she trailed off, turning back to the boy. There was grief in her eyes, raw and new; it occurred to Harry that the fact that this Snape was alive didn’t mean she hadn’t lost him. He wondered about the depth of their relationship, from before, and if her efforts were also driven by a measure of remorse. “Well, I agree with you,” she continued, “We knew from the beginning it was a long shot and I guess any answer to our questions went to the grave with Flamel. It would be irresponsible to continue…”

“No...”

With a groan, Severus shook off Madam Pomfrey’s hand in his chest, struggling to sit up. Desperately, his eyes jump from Harry to McGonagall.

“You can’t! It’s my life, you can’t stop me, you can’t—”

“Severus,” Harry tried, but the boy continued as if he heard nothing, angry tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You ain’t my family, why you get to decide that? You can’t!” He tried to stand up, only to sway like a sapling in the wind. Harry caught him before his legs gave out completely, and he kept mumbling, pushing him away. Severus shook his head as he laid him back in the couch, eyes begging over Madam Pomfrey’s shoulder. “You can’t…”

“I’m responsible for you, Severus, and I won’t let you get hurt like this for something we can barely hope will work,” he said, as softly as he could while still firm. Another tear fell. “I’m sorry.”

Later, while sitting by Severus’ bedside—the same one he occupied so frequently along the years—in the Hospital Wing, Harry’s thoughts twisted and turned around in his head. He stayed close by, just within reach, while Madam Pomfrey settled the boy, patiently explaining he needed to stay under observation for the night, that the dizziness would persist for a few more hours even after a proper antidote was administered. He stayed in case Severus needed him in any way.

The boy fell asleep with his back turned to him, without looking at him once.

Knowing that he’d taken the right decision didn’t help settle his feelings. The sight of Severus listless on the floor had frightened him beyond measure, but the contempt in his eyes after had hurt him deeper. The worst thing was that, deep down, he felt a stab of selfishness in his decision: he _wanted_ this Severus to stay. He wanted to keep him close, to help him; he’d wanted to do so for the old Snape too, before, but he wasn’t sure he would have been allowed. The conflicting emotions tangled in his stomach like a pair of snakes, coiling around each other until he couldn’t tell which was which.

“He looks much healthier now than when you first brought him in, even like this.”

Harry raised his head to see Dumbledore peering at him from a landscape painting. “Well, he’s eating as much as he wants, sleeping comfortably,” he answered, scrubbing away a stray tear with the back of his hand, “It’s only natural he’d look better.”

“Yes, sleep and good food will do wonders for a child in need,” the portrait answered, “And so will love.”

The knot in his throat expanded, taking away his breath. “It was hopeless, wasn’t it? All this research… You said it on the first day, that it was irreversible. How did you know?”

“Ah, it was a thing about Nicholas,” Dumbledore smiled, eyes shining with fond memories. “He was very keen on free will to choose. The Stone, arguably his greatest achievement, allowed one to experience eternal life; it also allowed the person the choice of death. He counted the bracelet among his failures, so I presumed he never found a way to bring one back, once changed.”

They watched the boy sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest, in silence. It was another thing he hadn’t allowed himself to consider too deeply, his feelings for Albus Dumbledore.

“Harry,” the portrait called, after a moment. “Severus’ memories, have you kept them?”

“Of course,” he frowned, “Why?”

“There might come a day, in a far future I hope, that he might want them back. Knowing one’s past is important when deciding one’s future.” He paused, as Severus rustled among the sheets, turning back to Harry once he settled again. “Keep them safe, it’s all I ask.”

“I will. I keep them close by at home, no one will get them without me noticing.” Harry twisted a curl tickling at his nose between his fingers, turning it into a perfect little coil. “You haven’t been to your portrait at the Headmaster’s office while we’ve been here. This is the first time you’ve appeared.”

Dumbledore looked down at him wistful. “I wanted to see Severus, but I assumed you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Like a dagger to the gut, twisting and pulling. Albus Dumbledore had never been one to pull any punches, that was for sure. Harry crossed his arms and settled deeper into his chair.

“Right as always.”

* * *

They didn’t go back to square one, as Harry feared. Instead of mistrust and wariness, Severus greeted him with open hostility, but this time his anger was directed at everyone. Shouting and destruction were given by now, and most of the Weasleys got the bad end of one of his tirades at least once in the following weeks; even then, he reserved his worst words, most creative wreckages, to Harry and Harry alone. As the trials started, and his presence was requested at the Ministry, it was ever a thrilling thing coming back home, never knowing what he would find: the brand new sofa slowly dissolving along with the rug, curtains in tatters as if attacked by a band of feral cats, and so on.

Severus was always there when he came back, watching him, waiting for his reaction in the most unnerving way. Invariably, he’d storm back to his room and slam the door closed, angered when he simply waved his wand and fixed the day’s damage.

He hated subjecting the Weasleys to this, so recently, but more and more he feared leaving and coming back to an empty house. At the Burrow Severus held himself back at least partly, snarling and hissing and nothing more; he escaped to the yard, spent hours each day roaming among the trees behind the house, ignoring everyone else.

For this reason, it did surprise him when he came back one afternoon to the sight of the boy quietly sitting beside Molly, an intense look of concentration scrunching his eyebrows, while trying to maneuver a pair of knitting needles under her instructions. He looped a stitch, looking up at her for approval only to notice Harry by the door. The peaceful bubble formed around them burst immediately, Severus’ frown turned to annoyance as he settled his tools on the cushion and stomped off without a word. He didn’t even brush against Harry as he passed him by.

“Well, that was the longest time he spent anywhere near me in weeks, so I’ll count it as a win,” said Mrs Weasley, placing the yarn and needles in a basket the same way he left them. Harry watched Severus’ retreating back, a sudden exhaustion falling over him. “Harry?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley. Yes, it’s an improvement.”

She tutted, seeing right through him. Harry shifted on his feet when she beckoned him closer, but sat down on the same cushion Severus just vacated; her hand on his cheek made his eyes sting.

“Tell me.”

His chuckle was shaky, weak even to his own ears. “I’m just… tired, I guess,” he mumbles, “And I can’t help but think I did make a mistake. I’m not helping, if anything he’s worse now than he was before, and I have no idea what to do.”

“No one knows what to do with children, Harry. No, really!” she smiles at his confusion. “By the time I had Ron or Ginny you’d imagine I’d have it in spades, but Ron still grew up with a terrible fear of spiders I couldn’t avoid, and I’m still overprotective of Ginny to the point she feels the need to hide _certain things_ from me.” Harry’s face burned under her shrewd look. “What I mean is, all you can do is your best.”

“How do I know if that will be enough?” asked Harry, and wasn’t that the point? How could he know if _he_ was enough, how—

Mrs Weasley furrowed her brows, taking his hands in hers. “Harry,” she started, in such a careful tone it startled him out of his commiseration. He braced himself, her look one he couldn’t read. “I don’t know if you thought about it—you probably didn’t, if I know you—but it doesn’t _have_ to be you—Harry, listen, calm down!” He recoiled, trying to pull his hands away, and he didn’t want to hear. “Harry! Oh, Merlin, I’m mucking it up… What I’m trying to say is, you’re seventeen. You already went through more than anyone your age should have, just to take even more responsibility on your shoulders! I know you have good intentions, and I fully believe you’re good for the boy, but what I’m saying is no one would judge you if you decided you can’t do it—”

“But I want to!” he cried; the strange feeling he swallowed back every time, that pushed and beat against his ribcage breaking free. “I want it to be me, I want him to be my responsibility. I want—” He bit his lip, trying to get a hold of himself. “You said it, at the funeral, that he reminds you of me at his age. I want to know, to be sure, he won’t grow up like I did, even though I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I understand that, and I think you _can_ do it,” answered Mrs Weasley, softly, “I just need you to know, that no matter what you choose, you’re not alone in it.” She pulled him to her side and he went willingly into her embrace. “I don’t know if you remember, but when I told Sirius I considered you as one of my own children I meant it. I still do.”

He remembered it. He remembered feeling bothered by her smothering, that it overwhelmed the warmth it caused in his chest. Now he knew how foolish he had been.

“And if you think of Severus as your family,” she continued, “That means he's ours too. Family means nobody gets left behind.” She patted his hair, looking at him with a small smile. “Not even dirty-mouthed little arsonists.”

It was strange, that it took someone else’s input to make him realize that he _did_ think of Severus as family, strange thought that it was. He wondered whether he was being too hurried, attaching himself too quickly, and what did that tell about him; he wondered whether he was projecting himself onto Severus instead of seeing him as his own person. His wonderings sounded too much like Hermione, too accurate, that he knew better by now than to discredit them immediately, but it didn’t change how he felt. He wanted this, that much he knew.

Giving Severus space didn’t work in his favour—not that he expected much to begin with—so when Mione, Ron, and Ginny said they were coming over Harry decided switching strategies was necessary.

“Urgh, please tell me you told Kreacher we were coming for dinner and he made one of those feasts of his,” was the first thing Ron said as he stepped out of the Floo, a scandalized Hermione on his heels.

“Ronald!”

“I did and of course there’s a lot of food,” Harry laughed, pulling Ginny for a quick kiss. Mione narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t ask! You know how he is, he’s always complaining that we eat too little even though Severus is a proper sinkhole most of the time.”

“Speaking of the devil,” said Ron, rooting around in his pockets, “I have something for the little berk.”

“Have you forgiven him for yesterday already?” asked Ginny.

“Well, he _is_ nine. I asked him if he even knew what smeghead was, but all he did was give me the fingers and run away. Seems stupid to hold it against him.” Ron shrugged, pulling out a small string bag with a gasp of triumph. “Here, you said he didn’t have many toys yet so…”

The bag opened to reveal an assortment of toy dragons, barely bigger than a finger. They weren’t as detailed as the miniatures they received in the Triwizard Tournament, and clearly made of wood, but when they reared their little heads up with only a few hitches Harry was enchanted. The paint was a little chipped and more than one had missing horns; it only made them look well-loved, cherished.

“I think they were Charlie’s first,” continued Ron, raising his eyebrows, “And then Percy’s, and then Fred and George’s, and finally mine. I even managed to get George to help fix them up a bit, but if they still look like they went through hell it’s because they did.”

“They’re perfect. Ron, you’re a genius.”

“I told him so,” Mione said, gently elbowing a flaming red Ron, “But he didn’t believe me.”

He left them to their teasing, giddily taking the steps to Severus’ room. His first knock went unanswered, and so did the second. _Patience, Harry,_ he thought with a sigh.

“Severus, I’m opening the door in ten seconds. Ten, nine—”

“Go away!”

“—ight, seven, s—”

“It’s locked, leave me alone!”

“—ix, five, four.” He heard scuttering, the thump of a book closing. “Three, tw—” A muttered _fuck_ , and the door swung open to reveal a harried Severus. If looks could kill and all that. “Was that hard?” The boy glowered harder, tensing to slam the door shut again. Harry pressed his hand on the wood, holding it in place.

“Piss off.”

“C’mon, you’re having dinner at the table today. Mione, Ron, and Ginny are here, and Ron even brought you a gift.”

“‘m not hungry and I don’t want his stupid gift,” muttered Severus, pushing the door with all his weight. It didn’t even budge. “Leggo!”

“So you don’t want to get a taste of the crème brûlée Kreacher made for dessert?” Severus stopped pushing, staring up at him.

“The custard with the hard sugar?” the boy asked, eyes growing with wonder.

“The very same he’s been telling you about. It’s okay if you don’t wanna come down, Kreacher can bring up your plate as he’s been doing every meal.” Harry bent down to his level, and Severus narrowed his eyes. “But then you get no dessert _and_ no stupid gift that you don’t even know what it is. It’s your choice.”

He let go of the door, turning on his heel without looking back. A moment later, he heard Severus kicking the door, muttering all the way down after him; still in his pyjamas and socks, he accepted the little bag from Ron’s hands with clear contempt, only to have his irritation melt away when the first little scaly head poked out. His mouth dropped open, slack with surprise, when he held up a purplish dragon missing the tip of his tail; it cocked its head at him, stretching the small wings. Severus bit his lip and said nothing.

They managed to find a comfortable rhythm through the meal despite the boy’s silence, for once avoiding all talk of rebuilding and recovery to focus on a good bout of gossip instead. Ginny launched into a compilation of the most embarrassing incidents of the last five years and by the time dessert finally came Harry had laughed more than he remembered doing in any recent times. He wiped away a few stray tears as the empty plates vanished, replaced by neatly arranged porcelain bowls, the coat of melted sugar glittering invitingly at him.

“Here, Severus, let me show you a fun way to eat it,” said Hermione, and, miracle of miracles, he let her. “I saw another girl doing it once at a restaurant.”

He intently watched her pick up her spoon, giving the dessert a sharp tap with the round side; the glaze cracked in many little pieces. She picked up a spoonful of cream and bits of sugar and raised her eyebrows inviting him to try. The toy dragons he’d liberated from the bag earlier gathered around his bowl when he picked up his silverware. He copied her movement, tapping until the entire covering was broken, and only then digging in; he polished off half of it before Harry as much as touched his own.

Ron picked up where Ginny left, recounting some old tale Charlie had told him years ago, and Harry turned his attention back to his friends to laugh at the misfortune of one of Gryffindor’s past Chasers (jinxed by a jealous ex-boyfriend with jelly hands mid-match, teammates had to fetch him out of his broom because he couldn’t steer it).

“Is everyone you know a bloody Gryffindor?”

They turned to see Severus frowning into his dessert, stabbing a stubborn piece of glaze with his spoon. A blue and yellow dragon poked its head on his bowl, and he carefully pushed it away with a finger.

“You have a problem with it?” asked Ron, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he shrugged, “If you prefer brawls over brains,”

Harry’s groan mirrored Hermione’s. He wondered when would they stop stumbling into echos from the past like this. “I don’t think anyone would say Hermione here has more brawls than brains,” he sighed, “So that saying is a bit flawed.”

“It was mam’s saying,” muttered Severus.

 _And that is exactly the problem, isn’t it_ , Harry thought. “You know she wasn’t always right, Severus.”

The boy glared at him, wounded and gearing up for a fight. The blue dragon tried to climb his hand holding the spoon, nuzzling his finger with its pointy snout and all at once Severus deflated, looking more tired than any child ever should.

“There’s Luna in Ravenclaw,” tried Ginny. “She’s nice.”

“But no Slytherins?” Severus asked in a small voice.

“We know lots of Slytherins,” snorted Ron, only to get a kick in the shin from Hermione while Severus frowned at him in confusion. Harry would’ve kicked him too if he were within reach.

“There’s Andromeda,” he blurted after the silence stretched on for too long, and the others nodded along. “You met her at the last funeral, Tonks’ mother. She was a Slytherin.”

Whatever reaction Harry hoped to get out of him, an even deeper frown and stony silence were what he received. Severus said nothing for the rest of his friends’ stay, seemingly engrossed in his toy dragons, and barely acknowledged their goodbyes. Ginny, staying behind for a moment after the others swirled away in a gust of flames, unabashedly told him her mum was waiting to _talk_ , crowning his embarrassment with a suggestive waggle of eyebrows. She laughed at his flush, poking his ribs until he followed her example, before kissing him goodbye for the night.

He managed to corner Severus in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth getting ready for bed. “You know, I was almost in Slytherin myself.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “You ain’t canny enough to be Slytherin.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. I’ve been keeping up with you alright I would say.” Severus rolled his eyes and Harry wanted to laugh at how much like his old version it already looked. He had the long-suffering sigh on point. The boy finished off, drying his hands in the hanging towel, and pushed past him without another word.

“You know,” continued Harry, following him into the bedroom before he had the chance to lock the door. Severus glared at him. “I was thinking of inviting Andromeda to have lunch with us on the weekend, show her the renovations and all that. What do you think?”

“It’s your house,” answered Severus, crouching down to herd the toy dragons into a tin lined with a sock, “You don’t need to ask me what I think.”

“It’s your house too.”

The boy looked curiously at him, shoulders tight. “You’re very strange,” he said, turning his back to place the tin on the bedside table.

“Is that a yes?”

Severus shrugged, only to cross his arms and look pointedly at the door. Shaking his head, Harry turned to leave. “Will she bring the baby?” the boy asked, suddenly right by his elbow, fiddling with his sleeve.

“I imagine so, she can’t leave him alone.” Severus bit his lip, hand clenching hard on the doorknob. “Is this a problem?”

Severus snorted, the sound ugly and much older than him. Disillusioned. “No,” he said, “Why would it be?” and closed the door, leaving Harry confused in the dark corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me long, whew! But it's here and we're halfway through now! The answer to the question if Severus will change back is here now, and we're almost at the chapter I most wanted to write (the next one!).
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments, sometimes I take long to answer but it's because you're so lovely I end up without words to say how happy I am! If you have any questions, don't hesitate in asking me anything on my tumblr, I'll love talking more about this or anything else really.

**Author's Note:**

> And it's not humour! It'll have it's funny parts though, I promise. Very loosely based on Lilo & Stitch, in the sense that Harry is Nani, while Severus is both Lilo AND Stitch at the same time.


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